OPi/ 


V 


\  <xf 


THE  MISTRESS 
OF  SHENSTONE 


BY 

FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY 

AUTHOR  OF 
TUB    ROSARY,   ETC. 


* 


GROSS!    T    <v     DIM     \  P 
PI  m  ISHI  R9  M\v  ^  <  IRI 


Copyright,    1910 

BY 

FLORENCE    L.    BARCLAY 


This  edition  is  issued  under  arrangement  with  the   publishers 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London 


Ubc  "fcnicfterbocfeer  press,  "Hew  gorfe 


CO 

C  W.  B. 


I 


I 


CONTENTS 


chapti»  wmmm 

I.  On  thi:  Terrace  at  Suenstonb     .  i 

II.  Thb  Forerunner           ...  8 

III.  What  Pbtbb  Knew        ...  23 

IV.  In  Safe  Hands      ....  48 
V.  Lady  In..:                   -Curb   .         .  61 

VI.     At  THE   MoOBHBAD  Inn  .  .        77 

vii.    Mi  .  O'Mara's  Correspondence  .      8a 
Vili.    In  Horseshoe  Cove      .        .        .105 

Jim   AlETB    K>    im:   RES  DB      .  .Ill 

X.     "Vi.»  H<>.  V.  .  .114 

XI.     Twi.xi    SEA  AMD  Sky       .  .  .      IE? 

;i.    r                 Morning  Stab    .        .15* 
XIII.    Tin  1  199 

IUys         .  .  .  .      i;«) 


VI 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

PAGB 

XV. 

"Where  Is  Lady  Ingleby  ?" 

• 

I90 

XVI. 

Under  the  Beeches  at  Shenstone 

205 

XVII. 

"Surely  You  Knew?". 

• 

214 

XVIII. 

What  Billy  Had  to  Tell 

• 

220 

XIX. 

Jim  Airth  Decides 

• 

231 

XX. 

A  Better  Point  of  View 

• 

250 

XXI. 

Michael  Veritas  . 

• 

260 

XXII. 

Lord  Ingleby's  Wife   . 

. 

271 

XXIII. 

What  Billy  Knew 

• 

289 

XXIV. 

Mrs.   Dalmain  Reviews  the 

SlTUA- 

tion  ..... 

• 

303 

XXV. 

The  Test      .... 

. 

327 

XXVI. 

"What  Shall  We  Write?" 

• 

337 

The  Mistress  of  Shenstone 


The  Mistress  of  Shenstone 


CHAPTER  I 

ON  TIIE  TERRACE  AT  SHENSTONE 

■THREE  o'clock  on  a  dank  afternoon,  early 

in  November.     The  wintry  sunshine,  in 

fitful    gleams,    pierced    the    greyncss    of    the 

T:  •    trees  in   Shenstone  Park  stood 

•int  ai  ling  wide  arms  over  the 

sodden  grass.     All  natir  med  waiting  the 

first  fall  Of  winter's  BXIOW,  which  should  hi 

iy  under  a  lovely  pall  1 1 
aiding  white,  ben<    ,:i  which  a  pr<  of 

might   gently    move   and 

stir;  and,  eventually,  Bpril  th. 

lowly  up 


2  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

and  down  the  terrace,  wrapped  in  her  long  fui 
cloak,  listening  to  the  soft  "drip,  drip"  of 
autumn  all  around ;  noting  the  silent  fall  of  the 
last  dead  leaves;  the  steely  grey  of  the  lake 
beyond;  the  empty  flower-garden;  the  de- 
serted lawn. 

The  large  stone  house  had  a  desolate 
appearance,  most  of  the  rooms  being,  evi- 
dently, closed;  but,  in  one  or  two,  cheerful 
log-fires  blazed,  casting  a  ruddy  glow  upon 
the  window-panes,  and  sending  forth  a  tempt- 
ing promise  of  warmth  and  cosiness  within. 

A  tiny  white  toy-poodle  walked  the  terrace 
with  his  mistress — an  agitated  little  bundle  of 
white  curls;  sometimes  running  round  and 
round  her;  then  hurrying  on  before,  or  drop- 
ping behind,  only  to  rush  on,  in  unexpected 
haste,  at  the  corners;  almost  tripping  her  up, 
as  she  turned. 

"Peter,"  said  Lady  Ingleby,  on  one  of  these 
occasions,  "I  do  wish  you  would  behave  in  a 
more  rational  manner!  Either  come  to  heel 
and  follow  sedately,  as  a  dog  of  your  "age 
should  do;  or  trot  on  in  front,  in  the  gaily 


ON  THE  TERRACE  AT  SHEXSTOXE       3 

juvenile  manner  you  assume  when    Mich; 

Ices  you  out  for  a  walk;  but,  for  goodness' 
sake,  don't  be  so  fidgety;  and  don't  run  round 
and  round  me  in  this  bewildering  way,  or  I 
shall  call  for  William,  and  send  you  in.  I 
only  wish  Michael  could  see  you!" 

The  little  animal  looked  up  at  her, 
pathetically,  through  his  tumbled  curls — a 
soft  silky  mass,  which  had  earned  for  him  his 
name  of  Shockheaded  Peter.     1  res,  red- 

rimmed  from  the  cold  wind,  had  that  lin- 
ing look,  often  D<  ble  in  a  very  old 
[.    Yet  there  was  in  them,  and  in  the  wh< 

pose  of  his  1  juish  "f  anxiety, 

:ich  could  not  h; 

tme  partially 

.are    of   it.     She  1    patted    his 

"  Poor  little  Pet  r, "  tid,  m       '  indiy. 

"it  ifl  horrid,  for  us  both,  having  Michael 

'his  I  -.     But  he  will 

h'>m-  and  we  shall  ! 

the  anxii  '  loneline        It  will  fcx 

in.     Mi         I     will  :  ly 


A  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

clipped,  and  we  will  go  to  Brighton,  where 
you  enjoy  trotting  about,  and  hearing  people 
call  you  'The  British  Lion.'  I  verily  believe 
you  consider  yourself  the  size  of  the  lions  in 
Trafalgar  Square!  I  cannot  imagine  why  a 
great  big  man,  such  as  Michael,  is  so  devoted 
to  a  tiny  scrap  of  a  dog,  such  as  you!  Now, 
if  you  were  a  Great  Dane,  or  a  mighty  St. 
Bernard — !  However,  Michael  loves  us  both, 
and  we  both  love  Michael;  so  we  must  be 
nice  to  each  other,  little  Peter,  while  he  is 
away." 

Myra  Ingleby  smiled,  drew  the  folds  of 
her  cloak  more  closely  around  her,  and  moved 
on.  A  small  white  shadow,  with  no  wag  to 
its  tail,  followed  dejectedly  behind. 

And  the  dead  leaves,  loosing  their  hold  of 
the  sapless  branches,  fluttered  to  the  sodden 
turf;  and  the  soft  "drip,  drip"  of  autumn  fell 
all  around. 

The  door  of  the  lower  hall  opened.  A 
footman,  bringing  a  telegram,  came  quickly 
out.  His  features  were  set,  in  well-trained 
impassivity;   but   his   eyelids   flickered    ner- 


ON  THE  TERRsiCE  AT  SHENSTONE       5 

vously  as  he  handed  the  silver  salver  to  his 
mistress. 

Lady  Ingleby's  lovely  face  paled  to  abso- 
lute whiteness  beneath  her  large  beaver  hat; 
but  she  took  up  the  orange  envelope  with 
a  steady  hand,  opening  it  with  fingers  which 
did  not  tremble.  As  she  glanced  at  the 
signature,  the  colour  came  back  to  her  cheeks. 

"From  Dr.  Brand,"  she  said,  with  an 
involuntary  exclamation  of  relief;  and  the 
waiting  footman  turned  and  nodded  furtively 
toward  the  house.  A  maid,  at  a  window, 
dropped  the  blind,  and  ran  to  tell  the  anxious 
household  all  was  well. 

Meanwhile,  Lady  Ingleby  read  her    tele- 
gram. 

1 7, Uing  patient  in  your  r.  urhood.     Can 

you  put  vie  up  for  th     '■     :;L  ?     Arriving  .J.JO. 

Deryt  h  Brand. 
Ingl         turned    t'>    the    footman. 

"Willia:     "  'tell    Mrs.    Ja:           Sir 

D-  ''nil'  i 

at  re  to-night.     They  t            ht 

a    fire    at    once  in    I'.                    ' .    I   -  in,    ;. 


6  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

■  i  i  i         i       i  ■    i    —    "    1 1 1  i  1 1» 

prepare  it  for  him.  He  will  be  here  in  an 
hour.  Send  the  motor  to  the  station.  Tell 
Groatley  we  will  have  tea  in  my  sitting-room 
as  soon  as  Sir  Deryck  arrives.  Send  down 
word  to  the  Lodge  to  Mrs.  O'Mara,  that  I 
shall  want  her  up  here  this  evening.  Oh, 
and — by  the  way — mention  at  once  at  the 
Lodge  that  there  is  no  further  news  from 
abroad." 

"Yes,  m'  lady,"  said  the  footman;  and 
Myra  Ingleby  smiled  at  the  reflection,  in  the 
lad's  voice  and  face,  of  her  own  immense 
relief.  He  turned  and  hastened  to  the  house ; 
Peter,  in  a  sudden  access  of  misplaced  energy, 
barking  furiously  at  his  heels. 

Lady  Ingleby  moved  to  the  front  of  the 
terrace  and  stood  beside  one  of  the  stone 
lions,  close  to  an  empty  vase,  which  in  summer 
had  been  a  brilliant  mass  of  scarlet  geraniums. 
Her  face  was  glad  with  expectation. 

"Somebody  to  talk  to,  at  last!"  she  said. 
"I  had  begun  to  think  I  should  have  to  brave 
dear  mamma,  and  return  to  town.  And 
Sir   Deryck   of   all   people!     He  wires   from 


ON  THE  TERFL4CE  AT  SHEXSTOXE 


Victoria,  so  I  conclude  he  sees  his  patient 
en  route,  or  in  the  morning.  How  perfectly- 
charming  of  him  to  give  me  a  whole  evening. 
I  wonder  how  many  people  would,  if  they 
knew  of  it,  be  breaking  the  tenth  command- 
ment concerning  me!  .  .  .  Peter,  you  little 
fiend!  Come  here!  Why  the  footmen,  and 
gardeners,  and  postmen,  do  not  kick  out 
your  gaining  teeth,   passes  me!   You 

pretend  to  be  too  unwell  to  <  ur  dinner, 

and  then  behave  like  a  frantic  hyena,  I 

>r  innocent  William  brings  me  a  telegram! 
I  shall  write  and  ask  Michael  if  I  may  ha 
you  hi         l." 

d,  in  high  good  humour,    I  -by 

e. 

I  leaves  tun 
and  1  1  on  the  ;  while  the  so;  ip, 

.utumn  fell  all  around. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FORERUNNER 

"  \  A  THAT  it  is  to  have  somebody  to  talk  to, 
at  last!  And  you,  of  all  people,  dear 
Doctor !  Though  I  still  fail  to  understand  how 
a  patient,  who  has  brought  you  down  to  these 
parts,  can  wait  for  your  visit  until  to-morrow 
morning,  thus  giving  a  perfectly  healthy 
person,  such  as  myself,  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  your  company  at  tea,  dinner, 
and  breakfast,  with  delightful  tete-a-tetes  in 
between.  All  the  world  knows  your  minutes 
are  golden." 

Thus  Lady  Ingleby,  as  she  poured  out  the 
doctor's  tea,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

Deryck  Brand  placed  the  cup  carefully  on 
his  corner  of  the  folding  tea-table,  helped 
himself  to  thin  bread-and-butter;  then  an- 
swered, with  his  most  charming  smile. 

"Mine  would  be  a  very  dismal  profession, 


THE  FORERUNNER 


dear  lady,  if  it  precluded  me  from  ever  having 
a  meal,  or  a  conversation,  or  from  spending  a 
pleasant   evening,   with   a   perfectly  healthy 

TSOn.  I  find  the  surest  way  to  live  one's 
life  to  the  full,  accomplishing  the  maximum 
amount  of  work  with  the  minimum  amount  of 
strain,  is  to  cultivate  the  habit  of  living  in  the 
present;  giving  the  whole  mind  to  the  scene, 
the  subject,  the  person,  of  the  moment. 
Therefore,  with  your  leave,  we  will  dismiss 
my  patients,  past  and  future;  and  enjoy,  to 
the  full,  this  unexpected  titc-<)-tci<  . " 

Myra  Ingleby  looked  at  her  visitor.  His 
forty-two  years  sat  lightly  on  him,  notwith- 
standing the  streaks  of  silver  in  the  dark 
hair   just   over   each    temp)         There    was    a 

'ithful  alert  ne       ibout  the  tall  athletic  i 
urc;  but  t!.  n  shaven  and 

.'.,  held  a  1  :"  quiet  strength  and 

r, mingled  with  alt  Llinessandn 

od  drew 

■  bur  t  lon<  I 

lift'  -a  M;  rt. 


10  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"Do  you  always  put  so  much  salt  on  your 
bread-and-butter?"  she  said.  "And  how 
glad  I  am  to  be  'the  person  of  the  moment.' 
Only — until  this  mysterious  'patient  in  the 
neighbourhood'  demands  your  attention, — 
you  ought  to  be  having  a  complete  holiday, 
and  I  must  try  to  forget  that  I  am  talking  to 
the  greatest  nerve  specialist  of  the  day,  and 
only  realise  the  pleasure  of  entertaining  so 
good  a  friend  of  Michael's  and  my  own. 
Otherwise  I  should  be  tempted  to  consult  you ; 
for  I  really  believe,  Sir  Deryck,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  am  becoming  neurotic." 

The  doctor  did  not  need  to  look  at  his 
hostess.  His  practised  eye  had  already  noted 
the  thin  cheeks;  the  haunted  look;  the  purple 
shadows  beneath  the  lovely  grey  eyes,  for 
which  the  dark  fringes  of  black  eyelashes  were 
not  altogether  accountable.  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"If  such  is  really  the  case,"  he  said,  "that 
you  should  be  aware  of  it,  is  so  excellent 
a  symptom,  that  the  condition  cannot  be 
serious.     But    I    want    you    to    remember, 


THE  FORERUXXER  1 1 

Lady  Ingleby,  that  I  count  all  my  patients, 
friends;  also  that  my  friends  may  consider 
themselves  at  liberty,  at  any  moment,  to 
come  my  patients.  So  consult  me,  if  I 
can  be  of  any  use  to  you." 

The  doctor  helped  himself  to  more  bread- 
and-butter,  folding  it  with  careful  precision. 

Lady  Ingleby  held  out  her  hand  for  his 
cup,  grateful  that  he  did  not  appear  to  notice 
the  rush  of  unexpected  tears  to  her  es. 
She  busied  herself  with  the  urn  until  she  coul 
ntrol  her  \  :  then  said,  with  a  rather 
laugh:  "Ah,  thank  you!  Presently 
— if  I  may — 1^1  i.     Mean- 

die,    I  <u   like    '  of   the 

moment'?     I  001         r    my    boudoir 

.11  th<  ra- 

it away.  ric 

pal  'of  his  own. 

p  irtrait?    A  won  Lerful 

md  him,  appi 

'  I   h  'ACQ 


12  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

I  entered,"  he  said.  "It  is  charming." 
Then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  picture  over 
the  mantelpiece: — the  life-sized  portrait  of  a 
tall,  bearded  man,  with  the  high  brow  of  the 
scholar  and  thinker;  the  eyes  of  the  mystic; 
the  gentle  unruffled  expression  of  the  saint. 
He  appeared  old  enough  to  be  the  father  of 
the  woman  in  whose  boudoir  his  portrait 
was  the  central  object.  The  artist  had 
painted  him  in  an  old  Norfolk  shooting-suit, 
leather  leggings,  hunting-crop  in  hand,  seated 
in  a  garden  chair,  beside  a  rustic  table. 
Everything  in  the  picture  was  homely,  old, 
and  comfortable;  the  creases  in  the  suit  were 
old  friends;  the  ancient  tobacco  pouch  on  the 
table  was  worn  and  stained.  Russet-brown 
predominated,  and  the  highest  light  in  the 
painting  was  the  clear  blue  of  those  dreamy, 
musing  eyes.  They  were  bent  upon  the 
table,  where  sat,  in  an  expectant  attitude  of 
adoring  attention,  a  white  toy-poodle.  The 
palpable  devotion  between  the  big  man  and 
the  tiny  dog,  the  concentrated  affection  with 
which  they  looked  at  one  another,  were  very 


THE  FORERUXXER  13 

cleverly  depicted.  The  picture  might  have 
been  called:  "We  two";  also  it  left  an  im- 
pression of  a  friendship  in  which  there  had 
been  no  room  for  a  third.  The  doctor  glanced, 
for  an  instant,  at  the  lovely  woman  on  the 
lounge,  behind  the  silver  urn,  and  his 
subconsciousness  propounded  the  question: 
"Where  did  she  come  in?"  But  the  next 
moment  he  turned  towards  the  large  armchair 
on  his  right,  where  a  small  dejected  mass  of 
white  curls  lay  in  a  huddled  heap.  It  was 
impossible  to  distinguish  between  head  and 
tail. 

"Is  this  the  little  dog?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Yes;  that  is  Peter.  Hut  in  the  picture 
he  is  smart  and  properly  clipped,  and  feeling 
better  than  he  does  just  now.  Peter  and 
Michael  an  1  toeach  oth*  when 

Mich  left  in  my  charg  . 

1 1  am  not  fond  of  a  aD  d<  Uy 

tUCh    spoilt.     Al  1 1    I 

t  tola  l  am 

M:  .  me  1 • 

where  I  ai  ..  n.     But 


14         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

I  am  quite  kind  to  him,  for  Michael's  sake. 
Only  he  really  is  a  nasty  little  dog;  and  too 
old  to  be  allowed  to  continue.  Michael 
always  speaks  of  him  as  if  he  were  quite  too 
good  to  live;  and,  personalty,  1  think  it  is 
high  time  he  went  where  all  good  dogs  go. 
I  cannot  imagine  what  is  the  matter  with 
him  now.  Since  yesterday  afternoon  he  has 
refused  all  his  food,  and  been  so  restless 
and  fidgety.  He  always  sleeps  on  Michael's 
bed;  and,  as  a  rule,  after  I  have  put  him 
there,  and  closed  the  door  between  Michael's 
room  and  mine,  I  hear  no  more  of  Peter,  until 
he  barks  to  be  let  out  in  the  morning,  and  my 
maid  takes  him  down-stairs.  But  last  night, 
he  whined  and  howled  for  hours.  At  length 
I  got  up,  found  Michael's  old  shooting  jacket — 
the  very  one  in  the  portrait — and  laid  it  on  the 
bed.  Peter  crawled  into  it,  and  cuddled 
down.  I  folded  the  sleeves  around  him,  and 
he  seemed  content.  But  to-day  he  still 
refuses  to  eat.  I  believe  he  is  dyspeptic,  or 
has  some  other  complaint,  such  as  dogs  de- 
velop when  they  are  old.     Honestly — don't 


THE  FORERUNNER  15 

you   think — a   lit        effective   poison,    in 
attractive  pill ?" 

"Oh,  hush!"  said  the  doctor.     "Peter  r. 
not         .sleep." 

Lady    Ingl  laughed.     "My    dear    Sir 

Deryck!     Do    you    suppose    animals    und 

ad  our  conversation? " 

"Indeed  I  octor.     "And 

more   than    that,    they   do   not    require    tl 
medium  of  lai  ;r  comprehension 

is    "  thic.  I   oar  thoughts.     A 

nervous  rider  i  [  r  car.  a  hoi 

Dumb  creatures  will  turn  away  from   those 
who  think  of  them  with  dislike  • 

•  :i  win 

without  :.  rd.     Tl. 

OOdwill   reach- 
winnii.  ind  n  ,  if 

.  •   i 

their  i 

Unary!" 

I  lid     t; 

t  is  *  with  I   shall 


16  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

know  how  to  face  Michael's  home-coming, 
if  anything  goes  wrong  with  his  beloved 
dog." 

The  doctor  lay  back  in  his  armchair;  crossed 
his  knees  the  one  over  the  other;  rested  his 
elbows  on  the  arms  of  the  chair;  then  let  his 
finger-tips  meet  very  exactly.  Instinctively 
he  assumed  the  attitude  in  which  he  usually 
sat  when  bending  his  mind  intently  on  a 
patient.  Presently  he  turned  and  looked 
steadily  at  the  little  white  heap  curled  up  in 
the  big  armchair. 

The  room  was  very  still. 

"Peter!"  said  the  doctor,  suddenly. 

Peter  sat  up  at  once,  and  peeped  at  the 
doctor,  through  his  curls. 

"Poor  little  Peter,"  said  the  doctor,  kindly. 

Peter  moved  to  the  edge  of  the  chair;  sat 
very  upright,  and  looked  eagerly  across  to 
where  the  doctor  was  sitting.  Then  he 
wagged  his  tail,  tapping  the  chair  with 
quick,  anxious,  little  taps. 

"The  first  wag  I  have  seen  in  twenty- 
four   hours,"    remarked   Lady    Ingleby;   but 


THE  FORERUXKER  17 

neither  Deryck  Brand  nor  Shockheaded  Peter 
heeded  the  remark. 

The  anxious  eyes  of  the  dog  were  gazing, 
with  an  agony  of  question,  into  the  kind  keen 
eyes  of  the  man. 

Without  moving,  the  doctor  spoke. 

"  Yes,  little  Peter,"  he  said. 

Peter's  small  tufted  tail  ceased  thumping. 
He  sat  -  >till  for  a  moment;  then  quietly 

m-  >ack  to  the  middle  of  the  chair,  turned 

round  and  round  three  or  four  times;  then  lay 
down,   dropping  his  head  between  his  paws 
with  one  long  shuddering  sigh,  like  a  lit: 
child  which  has  sobbed  itself  to  sleep. 

The   doctor   turned,    and   looked    at   Lady 
y. 

"What   does  that  mean?'*  1    Myra, 

"little   Peta  .  q,"  repli 

Sir    I  I  |    1    . 

"  V.  Will  talk  this  t-         thy 

with    .V  1    when    he 

It 


18         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"It  is  a  big  subject,"  he  said.  "When  I 
can  spare  the  time,  I  am  thinking  of  writing 
an  essay  on  the  mental  and  spiritual  develop- 
ment of  animals,  as  revealed  in  the  Bible." 

"Balaam's  ass?"  suggested  Lady  Ingleby, 
promptly. 

The  doctor  smiled.  "Quite  so,"  he  said. 
"But  Balaam's  ass  is  neither  the  only  animal 
in  the  Bible,  nor  the  most  interesting  case. 
Have  you  ever  noticed  the  many  instances 
in  which  animals  immediately  obeyed  God's 
commands,  even  when  those  commands  ran 
counter  to  their  strongest  instincts?  For 
instance: — the  lion,  who  met  the  disobedient 
man  of  God  on  the  road  from  Bethel.  The 
instinct  of  the  beast,  after  slaying  the  man, 
would  have  been  to  maul  the  body,  drag  it 
away  into  his  lair,  and  devour  it.  But  the 
Divine  command  was: — that  he  should  slay, 
but  not  eat  the  carcass,  nor  tear  the  ass. 
The  instinct  of  the  ass  would  have  been  to 
flee  in  terror  from  the  lion;  but,  undoubtedly, 
a  Divine  assurance  overcame  her  natural 
fear;  and  all  men  who  passed  by  beheld  this 


THE  FORERUNNER 


remarkable  ^ight : — a  lion  and  an  ass  standing 
sentry,  one  on  either  side  of  the  dead  body  of 
the  man  of  God;  and  there  they  remained 
until  the  old  prophet  from  Bethel  arrived,  to 
fetch  away  the  body  and  bun,'  it.*' 

"Extraordinary!"  said  L  [ngleby.  "So 
they  did.  And  now  one  comes  to  think  of  it 
th<  plenty   of   similar  The 

instinct  of  the  serpent  which  Moses  lifted  up 
on  a  pol  mid  hav<  n  to  come  scriggl ing 
down,  and  g  at  biting  in- 

stead of  st  up  on  tlu-         .  to  be  look 

at  for  their  healing." 

.e  do  ."  he  said. 

"On]  be  him  as  an  instano 

.  I      ar  he 
•  he  would  have 
in    point.     And    I 
anin.  piriti 

lif *  .      I  \Q   ;.  a 

in   th 


20         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

His  face  '  they  are  troubled.'  Good  heavens ! " 
said  the  doctor,  earnestly ;  "  I  wish  our  spiritual 
life  always  answered  to  these  two  tests: — 
that  God's  will  should  be  paramount  over  our 
strongest  instincts;  and  that  any  cloud  be- 
tween us  and  the  light  of  His  face,  should 
cause  us  instant  trouble  of  soul." 

"I  like  that  expression  'spiritual  life,'" 
said  Lady  Ingleby.  "I  am  sure  you  mean 
by  it  what  other  people  sometimes  express 
so  differently.  Did  you  hear  of  the  Duchess 
of  Meldrum  attending  that  big  evangelistic 
meeting  in  the  Albert  Hall?  I  really  don't 
know  exactly  what  it  was.  Some  sort  of 
non-sectarian  mission,  I  gather,  with  a  preacher 
over  from  America ;  and  the  meetings  went  on 
for  a  fortnight.  It  would  never  have  occurred 
to  me  to  go  to  them.  But  the  dear  old 
duchess  always  likes  to  be  'in  the  know'  and 
to  sample  everything.  Besides,  she  holds  a 
proprietary  stall.  So  she  sailed  into  the 
Albert  Hall  one  afternoon,  in  excellent  time, 
and  remained  throughout  the  entire  pro- 
ceedings.    She  enjoyed  the  singing;  thought 


THE  FORERUNNER  21 

tin  ening    crowd,    marvellous;    was 

moved    to    t<  by    the    eloquence    of    the 

preacher,    and    was    leaving    the    hall    more 
than  she  had   been   for  ;         .   and 
fully  intending  to  return,  bringing  others  with 
r,   when   a   smug  person,  ring  about 

the  entrance,  accosted  her  with:  'Excuse  me 
madam;  V     The  duclu 

I  her  Lorgnette  in  blank  amazem<         :\& 
lo«  him  up  an  vn.     Very  likely  the 

still  I  upon  her  proud  old  fat 

•    • 
rapr  e.     K 

•ice,  1.  and  upon  her  arm, 

and  1  :   '  Madam,  are  y 

a  <  duchess  aw< 

situation  with  a  'M  d  man/ 

sh- 
in th<  ht 
it  ur 

I     am    an 
irk,  [nfi 

:  will         Uy 
,  I  will  ]  ■  ' 


22  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

the  duchess  sampled  no  more  evangelistic 
meetings!" 

The  doctor  sighed.  "Tactless,"  he  said. 
"Ah,  the  pity  of  it,  when  'fools  rush  in  where 
angels  fear  to  tread! ' " 

"People  scream  with  laughter,  when  the 
duchess  tells  it,"  said  Lady  Ingleby ;  "but  then 
she  imitates  the  unctuous  person  so  exactly; 
and  she  does  not  mention  the  tears.  I  have 
them  from  an  eye-witness.  But — as  I  was 
saying — I  like  your  expression:  'spiritual 
life.'  It  really  holds  a  meaning;  and,  though 
one  may  have  to  admit  one  does  not  possess 
any,  or,  that  what  one  does  possess  is  at  a 
low  ebb,  yet  one  sees  the  genuine  thing  in 
others,  and  it  is  something  to  believe  in,  at  all 
events. — Look  how  peacefully  little  Peter  is 
sleeping.  You  have  evidently  set  his  mind 
at  rest.  That  is  Michael's  armchair;  and, 
therefore,  Peter's.  Now  we  will  send  away 
the  tea-things;  and  then — may  I  become  a 
patient?" 


CHAPTER  III 

WHAT  PETER  KNEW 

"TS  XT  my  good  Groatley  a  curious  looking 

*     per  ■  ■■■"      •'  I  La  ly  Ingleby,  as  the  door 

closed  behind  the  butler.     "I  call  him  the 

hon,   '  he  look     •    rpetually  as- 

:.     II  re  like  Mack  horsi  - 

shoes,  and  they  mount  higher  up 

But 
i  i  v«  •        ithful,  his  work, 

Michael  him.     Do   you   like   this 

Michael?    Garth  I  >almairj  si 

he  lost  hi      \\  ht, 
I  belie 
mine  wi      pi  -: • 

in  the  dini 
T* 

pictui  mantel]  I  turn  i      lily 

3J 


24         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

toward  Lady  Ingleby  on  his  left.  On  his 
right,  little  Peter,  with  an  occasional  sobbing 
sigh,  slept  heavily  in  his  absent  master's  chair. 
The  log-fire  burned  brightly.  The  electric 
light,  from  behind  amber  glass,  sent  a  golden 
glow  as  of  sunshine  through  the  room.  The 
dank  damp  drip  of  autumn  had  no  place  in 
this  warm  luxury.  The  curtains  were  closely 
drawn;  and  that  which  is  not  seen,  can  be 
forgotten. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  the  clock.  The 
minute-hand  pointed  to  the  quarter  before 
six. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  picture. 

"I  hardly  know  Lord  Ingleby  sufficiently 
well  to  give  an  opinion ;  but  I  should  say  it  is 
an  excellent  likeness,  possessing,  to  a  large 
degree,  the  peculiar  quality  of  all  Dalmain's 
portraits: — the  more  you  look  at  them,  the 
more  you  see  in  them.  They  are  such  ex- 
traordinary character  studies.  With  your 
increased  knowledge  of  the  person,  grows 
your  appreciation  of  the  cleverness  of  the 
portrait." 


WHAT  PETER  KN1  R  25 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Ingleby,  leaning  forward 
to  look  intently  up  at  the  picture.  "It  often 
startles  me  as  I  come  into  the  room,  because  I 
see  a  fresh  expression  on  the  face,  just  accord- 
ing to  my  own  mood,  or  what  I  happen  to  have 
been  doing;  and  I  realise  Michael's  mind  on 
the  subject  more  readily  from  the  portrait 
than  from  my  own  know'  of  him.     Garth 

Dalmain  was  a  genius!" 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  the  doctor,  gently. 
"Why  did  you  leave  town,  your  many  friends, 

•ir  in*  1X1  Old*  r  '     yourself 

wnhe-  •    'her? 

Surely  the  strain  of  waiting  for  news  would 

f  the 

Lady  L  r  mirthlessly. 

"I  can*  k,  partly  to  < 

...  not  k 

■ 

\tial  it  w 
When  Michael 
Mamma 


26         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

■— i-— ■ i  -  ■  i     in  ■  —i ..    ■  — ■ -i.  i   I...    - 1—  -.—  i  ■  ■  i  . ..  ,d 1 1— — — ■ 

to  their  sex  and  temperament,  to  rage,  hys- 
terics, or  despair;  tells  unpalatable  home- truths 
to  my  friends,  so  that  all — save  the  duchess — 
flee  discomforted.  Then  mamma  proceeds 
to  'divide  the  spoil'!  In  other  words:  she 
lies  in  wait  for  my  telegrams,  and  opens  them 
herself,  saying  that  if  they  contain  good 
news,  a  dutiful  daughter  should  delight  in  at 
once  sharing  it  with  her;  whereas,  if  they  con- 
tain bad  news,  which  heaven  forbid! — and 
surely,  with  mamma  snorting  skyward,  heaven 
would  not  venture  to  do  otherwise! — she 
is  the  right  person  to  break  it  to  me, 
gently.  I  bore  it  for  six  weeks ;  then  fled  down 
here,  well  knowing  that  not  even  the  dear 
delight  of  bullying  me  would  bring  mamma  to 
Shenstone  in  autumn." 

The  doctor's  face  was  grave.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  looked  silently  into  the  fire.  He  was 
a  man  of  many  ideals,  and  foremost  among 
them  was  his  ideal  of  the  relation  which  should 
ue  between  parents  and  children ;  of  the  loyalty 
to  a  mother,  which,  even  if  forced  to  admit 
faults  or  failings,  should  tenderly  shield  them 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  27 

from  the  knowledge  or  criticism  of  outsiders. 

It  hurt  him,  as  a  sacrilege,  to  hear  a  daughter 

speak  thus  of  her  mother;  yet  he  knew  well, 

from   facts  which  were  common  knowledge, 

how  little  cause  tl.  .  lovable  woman  at 

his  side  had  to  consider  the  tie  either  a  sacr 

or  a  r  one.     He  had  come  to  help,  not 

to   find    fault.     Also,    the   minute-hand   was 

hastening   towards   the   hour;   and    the   final 

instructions  of  the  kinddiearted  old  Duchess 

Irum,  as  she  parted  from  him  at  the 

War    Office,    had    been:     "!  ber!     Six 

lock  from  London.     I  shall  insist  upon  its 

ing  kept  back  until  then.    If  they  ma] 

difficulties,   I  shall  camp  in  the  entrance  ami 
'hold  U]  to 

• .    But  I  an  my 

vn  way  with  th<  I 

■;;>  Bu  kingham  Pala 

if  •  '.1  know!    So 

it  will  i.  L<  md 

until  It 

'  I   I 

It  doei  not  i         within  my  i  -   ieooej 


28  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

yet  I  think  I  understand.  But  tell  me, 
Lady  Ingleby.  If  bad  news  were  to  come, 
would  you  sooner  receive  it  direct  from  the 
War  Office,  in  the  terribly  crude  wording 
which  cannot  be  avoided  in  those  telegrams; 
or  would  you  rather  that  a  friend — other  than 
your  mother — broke  it  to  you,  more  gently?" 

Myra's  eyes  flashed.  She  sat  up  with 
instant  animation. 

"Oh,  I  would  receive  it  direct,"  she  said. 
"It  would  be  far  less  hard,  if  it  were  official. 
I  should  hear  the  roll  of  the  drums,  and  see 
the  wave  of  the  flag.  For  England,  and  for 
Honour!  A  soldier's  daughter,  and  a  soldier's 
wife,  should  be  able  to  stand  up  to  anything. 
If  they  had  to  tell  me  Michael  was  in  great 
danger,  I  should  share  his  danger  in  receiving 
the  news  without  flinching.  If  he  were 
wounded,  as  I  read  the  telegram  I  should 
receive  a  wound  myself,  and  try  to  be  as  brave 
as  he.  All  which  came  direct  from  the  war, 
would  unite  me  to  Michael.  But  interfering 
friends,  however  well-meaning,  would  come 
between.     If  he  had  not  been  shielded  from 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  29 

a  bullet  or  a  sword-thrust,  why  should  /  be 
shielded  from  the  knowledge  of  his  wound?" 
The  doctor  screened  his  face  with  his  hand. 
"I  see,"  he  said. 
The  clock  struck  six. 

"But  that  was  not  the  only  reason  I  left 

vn,"  continued  Lady  Ingleby,  with  evident 

effort.    Then  she  flung  out  both  hands  towards 

him.     "Oh,  doctor!  I  wonder  if  I  might  tell 

i  a  thing  which  has  been  a  burden  on  my 

heart  and  life  for  year  !" 

T!  a  tense  moment  of  silence; 

r  was  used  to  such  moments,  and 

ild    usually    determine    during   the  silence, 

whether  the  confidence  should  be  allowed  or 

1  !-•  tumi    I    ■  ad   I  oked   steadily  at 

the  '  ful  f;. 

•  Kceedingly  beautiful 

woman,  nearing  thirty.      But  the  low 

still  held  •  -  candour  <»f  thi  i  i  a 

little    child,    the  quivered     with 

brow 
in.    The  d( ctor  k- 
he  the 


30  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

popular  hostesses,  one  of  the  most  admired 
women,  in  the  kingdom.  Yet  his  keen  pro- 
fessional insight  revealed  to  him  an  arrested 
development;  possibilities  unfulfilled;  a  pro- 
blem of  inadequacy  and  consequent  disap- 
pointment, to  which  he  had  not  the  key. 
But  those  outstretched  hands  eagerly  held  it 
towards  him.  Could  he  bring  help,  if  he 
accepted  a  knowledge  of  the  solution;  or — ■ 
did  help  come  too  late? 

"Dear  Lady  Ingleby,"  he  said,  quietly; 
"tell  me  anything  you  like;  that  is  to  say* 
anything  which  you  feel  assured  Lord  Ingleby 
would  allow  discussed  with  a  third  person." 

Myra  leaned  back  among  the  cushions  and 
laughed — a  gay  little  laugh,  half  of  amuse- 
ment, half  of  relief. 

"Oh,  Michael  would  not  mind!"  she  said. 
"Anything  Michael  would  mind,  I  have 
always  told  straight  to  himself ;  and  they  were 
silly  little  things ;  such  as  foolish  people  trying 
to  make  love  to  me;  or  a  foreign  prince,  with 
moustaches  like  the  Carman  Emperor's,  offering 
to  shoot  Michael,  if  I  would  promise  to  marry 


WHA  T  PETER  KNE  W  3 1 


him  when  his  period  of  consequent  imprison- 
ment was  over.  I  cut  the  idiots  who  had 
presumed  to  make  love  to  me,  ever  after;  and 
assured  th-  :gn  prince,  I  should  undoubt- 

'y   kill   him   myself,   if   he  hurt   a   hair  of 
Michael's  head!     No,  dear  doctor.     My  1 

dear  of  all  that  sort  of  complication.     My 

ruble  is  a  harder  one,  involving  one's  whole 
lif.  i.     All  1  that  problem  is  incompe- 

noe  and  inadequacy — not  towards  the  world, 
I  should  0  I  rap  for  that;  but  towai 

•     whom  I  owe  mos*  Is  Michael, 

— my  hv  :." 

Th  Hy  in  his  chair,  ; 

glaxu  •  k. 

"Oh,  '••    "Do  not " 

.  '  DOt  Si 

last  hav  h! 

:  ■    hi ;  I  ha 

I 

I:: 

brain  I  am  an  u  hild,  and  I  kr. 

.nd — 

U  I    b 


32  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

to  years  ago.  Mamma  never  allowed  any  of 
her  daughters  to  grow  up.  We  were  permitted 
no  individuality  of  our  own,  no  opinions,  no 
independence.  All  that  was  required  of  us, 
was  to  'do  her  behests,  and  follow  in  her 
train.'  Forgive  the  misquotation.  We  were 
always  children  in  mamma's  eyes.  We  grew 
tall;  we  grew  good-looking;  but  we  never 
grew  up.  We  remained  children,  to  be 
snubbed,  domineered  over,  and  bullied.  My 
sisters,  who  were  good  children,  had  plenty 
of  jam  and  cake;  and,  eventually,  husbands 
after  mamma's  own  heart  were  found  for 
them.  Perhaps  you  know  how  those  marriages 
have  turned  out?" 

Lady  Ingleby  paused,  and  the  doctor  made 
an  almost  imperceptible  sign  of  assent.  One 
of  the  ladies  in  question,  a  most  unhappy 
woman,  was  under  treatment  in  his  Mental 
Sanatorium  at  that  very  moment;  but  he 
doubted  whether  Lady  Ingleby  knew  it. 

"I  was  the  black  sheep,"  continued  Myra, 
finding  no  remark  forthcoming.  "Nothing  I 
did  was  ever  right ;  everything  I  did  was  always 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  33 


wrong.  When  Michael  met  me  I  was  nearly 
eighteen,  the  height  I  am  now,  but  in  the 
nursery,  as  regards  mental  development  or 
knowledge  of  the  world;  and,  as  regards 
character,  a  most  unhappy,  utterly  reckless, 
little  child.  Michael's  love,  when  at  last  I 
dised  it,  was  wonderful  to  me.  Tenderness, 
appreciation,  consideration,  were  experienc 
so   novel   that   they  would   have  turned   my 

not  the  elation  they  produced  been 
counterbalanced  by   a   gratitude   which   was 

vhelming;  and  a  terror  of  being  hand 
1   ick  to  mamma,  which  would  have  made  me 

.ythii        Y.  us  later,  Michael  told 
me  that  what  him  to  me  was 

a  look  in  my  i  '     >k  in  those  of 

■  favor.-  .  who  v  in 

tr  with  •  nd  had  just  be  D 

ae  r.    Miehad  told 

me  this  him  •  •    I     '  • 

be  pi 

•Ming  with  hi  I  b  v- 

No 

If  1 


34  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

lost  him,  I  should  lose  my  all — everything 
which  makes  home,  home ;  and  life  a  safe,  and 
certain,  thing.  But  if  he  lost  little  Peter,  it 
would  be  a  more  real  loss  to  him  than  if 
he  lost  me;  because  Peter  is  more  intelligent 
for  his  size,  and  really  more  of  an  actual 
companion  to  Michael,  than  I  am.  Many 
a  time,  when  he  has  passed  through  my  room 
on  the  way  to  his,  with  Peter  tucked  securely 
under  his  arm ;  and  saying,  '  Good-night,  my 
dear,'  to  me,  has  gone  in  and  shut  the  door, 
I  have  felt  I  could  slay  little  Peter,  because  he 
had  the  better  place,  and  because  he  looked  at 
me  through  his  curls,  as  he  was  carried  away, 
as  if  to  say:  'You  are  out  of  it!'  Yet  I  knew 
I  had  all  I  deserved;  and  Michael's  kindness 
and  goodness  and  patience  were  beyond 
words.  Only — only — ah,  can  you  under- 
stand? I  would  sooner  he  had  found  fault 
and  scolded ;  I  would  sooner  have  been  shaken 
and  called  a  fool,  than  smiled  at,  and  left 
alone.  I  was  in  the  nursery  when  he  married 
me ;  I  have  been  in  the  school-room  ever  since, 
trying  to  learn  life's  lessons,  alone,  without  a 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  35 

to  acher.  Nothing  has  helped  me  to  grow  up. 
Michael  has  always  told  me  I  am  perfect,  and 
everything  I  do  is  perfect,   and  he  does  not 

nt  me  different.     But  I  have  never  really 
shared    his    life    and    interests.     If    I    make 

ic    mistakes    he    does    not    correct    a 
I  have  to  find  them  out,  when  I  re;  them 

ore    others.     When     I    made    that    silly 
about    the   brazen    serpent,    you    so 
ki-  right.    Michael    would    have 

sn  let  it  pass  as  not  worth  correcting; 

then  I    '.'■'  I  have  n  Lit  before  a  room- 

ful of  peo]  '  1  why  they  linked 

.  but  what  do  I  le,  or 

the  woridl    I  place  b  Mich. 

I  v.    Qt  1  .      I  want  •  up  unto  him 

in  all  things.'    Y<    .  I   know  that  is  a  '  I 

am  fain  -  rather,  n 

But  it  — 

• 
mild    in  '  :,   and    ': 

I    ••  re  I    And] 

ki 

Dalmain; 


36  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

you,  who  have  done  so  much  for  dozens  of 
women  I  know;  tell  me  how  I  can  cease  to  be 
inadequate  towards  my  husband." 

The  passionate  flow  of  words  ceased  sud- 
denly. Lady  Ingleby  leaned  back  against  the 
cushions. 

Peter  sighed  in  his  sleep. 

A  clock  in  the  hall  chimed  the  quarter 
after  six. 

The  doctor  looked  steadily  into  the  fire. 
He  seemed  to  find  speech  difficult. 

At  last  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  shook 
slightly:  "Dear  Lady  Ingleby,  he  did  not — 
he  does  not — think  you  so." 

"No,  no! "  she  cried,  sitting  forward  again. 
"He  thinks  of  me  nothing  but  what  is  kind  and 
right.  But  he  never  expected  me  to  be  more 
than  a  nice,  affectionate,  good-looking  dog; 
and  I — I  have  not  known  how  to  be  bettei 
than  his  expectations.  But,  although  he  is 
so  patient,  he  sometimes  grows  unutterably 
tired  of  being  with  me.  All  other  pet  creatures 
are  dumb ;  but  I  love  talking,  and  I  constantly 
say  silly  things,  which  do  not  sound  silly,  until 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  37 

I  have  said  them.    He  goes  off  to  N<  irway, 

fishing;  to  the  Engadine,  mountain-climbing; 
to  this  horrid  war,  risking  his  precious  life. 
Anywhere    to    get    away    alone;    anywhere 

to " 

"I lush,"  said  the  doctor,  and  laid  a  firm 

brown  hand,   for    a    moment,  on    the  white 

fluttering  fingers.     "You  are  overwrought  by 

•      e  of  these  past  weeks.     Y<  »u  know 

U  that  Lord  Engleby  volunto 

is  border  war  because  he  was  so  keen  on 

;  with  his  i  .1  on 

trying    '  using    i  y    in 

t  which  he  has  worked  so 

[know,"      id  Myra,  smiling  w;  t- 

fully.     "Tin  .    which  him 

.   in   his   la'         ■   tv.      And    he   has   so:    •• 

r  plan  for  loi  ailing 

I  in  the  b! 
I   •      n.     But  the 

all  t: 
than  if  !  n  at  the  1  • 


36  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


old  regiment,  and  gone  at  the  imperative  call 
of  duty.  However — nothing  matters  so  long 
as  he  comes  home  safely.  And  now  you — you, 
Sir  Deryck — must  help  me  to  become  a  real 
helpmeet  to  Michael.  Tell  me  how  you 
helped — oh,  very  well,  we  will  not  mention 
names.  But  give  me  wise  advice.  Give  me 
hope;  give  me  courage.     Make  me  strong." 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  clock;  and,  even 
as  he  looked,  the  chimes  in  the  hall  rang  out 
the  half -hour. 

"You  have  not  yet  told  me,"  he  said, 
speaking  very  slowly,  as  if  listening  for  some 
other  sound;  "you  have  not  yet  told  me,  your 
second  reason  for  leaving  town." 

"Ah,"  said  Lady  Ingleby,  and  her  voice 
held  a  deeper,  older,  tone — a  note  bordering 
on  tragedy.  "Ah!  I  left  town,  Sir  Deryck, 
because  other  people  were  teaching  me  love- 
lessons,  and  I  did  not  want  to  learn  them 
apart  from  Michael.  I  stayed  with  Jane 
Dalmain  and  her  blind  husband,  before  they 
went  back  to  Gleneesh.  You  remember? 
They  were  in  town  for  the  production  of  his 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  39 

symphony.  I  saw  that  ideal  wedded  life, 
and  I   i  something  of  what  a  perfect 

mating  of   souls   could   mean.     And   then — 

■11,  the  •  others;  people  who  did  not 

ur.  1    how    wholly    I    am    Michael's; 

nothing  actually  wrong;  but  not  so  fresh  and 

uthful  as  Billy's  innocent  adoration;  and  I 
I  hould  accidentally  learn  what  only 
Michael  must  teach.  Therefore  I  fled  away! 
Oh,  dor'  r;  if  I  ever  learned  from  another 
man,  that  which  I  have  failed  to  learn  from 
my  own  husband,   I  should  lie  at   Michael's 

him  to  kill  m<  I  " 
T!  r  looked  up  at  the  portrait  o\   r 

the  mantelpiece.     Thi  I  '•        face 

smiled  1  the  tir.;  I    ■  ■■    • 

od,  white  and  <:■  nan's,  was 

r  uplifted,  gently  holding  the 
Q   of   the   little   anin: 

kill  of  th<  •    supplied  the 

with  problem.    A 

•  ■If, 

/  in  tl  think' 

it.     I  [e  coul  I  appro  tatc 


40  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

dumb  devotion;  he  was  capable  of  unlimited 
kindness,  leniency,  patience,  toleration.  But 
woman  and  dog  alike,  remained  outside  the 
citadel  of  his  inner  self.  Had  not  her  eyes  re- 
sembled those  of  a  favourite  spaniel,  he  would 
very  probably  not  have  wedded  the  lovely 
woman  who,  now,  during  ten  years  had  borne 
his  name;  and  even  then  he  might  not  have 
done  so,  had  not  the  tyranny  of  her  mother, 
awakening  his  instinct  of  protection  towards 
the  weak  and  oppressed,  aroused  in  him  a 
determination  to  withstand  that  tyranny,  and 
to  carry  her  off  triumphantly  to  freedom. 

The  longer  the  doctor  looked,  the  more 
persistently  the  picture  said:  "We  two;  and 
where  does  she  come  in?" — Righteous  wrath 
arose  in  the  heart  of  Deryck  Brand;  for  his 
ideal  as  to  man's  worship  of  woman  was  a 
high  one.  As  he  thought  of  the  closed  door; 
of  the  lonely  wife,  humbly  jealous  of  a  toy- 
poodle,  yet  blaming  herself  only,  for  her  lone- 
liness, his  jaw  set,  and  his  brow  darkened. 
And  all  the  while  he  listened  for  a  sound  from 
the  outer  world  which  must  soon  come. 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  41 

Lady  Ingleby  noticed  his  intent  gaze,  and, 
leaning  forward,  also  looked  up  at  the  picture. 
The  firelight  shone  on  her  lovely  face,  and  on 
the  gleaming  softness  of  her  hair.  Her  lips 
parted  in  a  tender  smile ;  a  pure  radiance  shone 
from  her  eyes. 

"Ah,  he  is  so  good!"  she  said.  "In  all  the 
years,  he  has  never  once  spoken  harshly  to 
me.  And  see  how  lovingly  he  looks  at  Peter, 
who  really  is  a  most  unattractive  little  dog. 
Did  you  ever  hear  the  duchess's  bon  mot 
about  Michael?  He  and  I  once  stayed  to- 
gether at  Overdene;  but  she  did  not  ask  us 
again  until  he  was  abroad,  fishing  in  Norway; 
so  of  course  I  went  by  myself.  The  duchess 
always  does  those  things  frankly,  and  explains 
them.  Therefore  on  this  occasion  she  said: 
'My  dear,  I  enjoy  a  visit  from  you;  but  you 
must  only  come,  when  you  can  come  alone. 
I  will  never  undertake  again,  to  live  up  to 
your  good  Michael.  It  really  was  a  case  of 
St.  Michael  and  All  Angels.  He  was 
St.   Michael,  and  we  had  to  be  all  angels!1 

Wasn't    it  like  the  duchi       .   and    a    beautiful 


42         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

testimony  to  Michael's  consistent  goodness? 
Oh,  I  wish  you  knew  him  better.  And,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  I  wish  /  knew  him  better! 
But  after  all  I  am  his  wife.  Nothing  can  rob 
me  of  that.  And  don't  you  think — when 
Michael  comes  home  this  time — somehow,  all 
will  be  different;  better  than  ever  before?" 

The  hall  clock  chimed  three-quarters  after 
the  hour. 

The  clang  of  a  bell  resounded  through  the 
silent  house. 

Peter  sat  up,  and  barked  once,  sharply. 

The  doctor  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  facing  the  door. 

Myra's  question  remained  unanswered. 

Hurried  steps  approached. 

A  footman  entered,  with  a  telegram  for 
Lady  Ingleby. 

She  took  it  with  calm  fingers,  and  without 
the  usual  sinking  of  the  heart  from  sudden 
apprehension.  Her  mind  was  full  of  the 
conversation  of  the  moment,  and  the  doctor's 
presence  made  her  feel  so  strong  and  safe;  so 
sure  of  no  approach  of  evil  tidings. 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  43 

She  did  not  hear  Sir  Deryck's  quiet  voice 
say  to  the  man:  ''You  need  not  wait." 

As  the  door  closed,  the  doctor  turned  away, 
and  stood  looking  into  the  fire. 

The  room  was  very  still. 

Lady  Ingleby  opened  her  telegram,  unfolded 
it  slowly,  and  read  it  through  twice. 

Afterwards  she  sat  on,  in  such  absolute 
silence  that,  at  length,  the  doctor  turned  and 
looked  at  her. 

She  met  his  eyes,  quietly. 

"Sir  Deryck,"  she  said,  "it  is  from  the  War 
)fhce.  They  tell  me  Michael  has  been  killed. 
Do  you  think  it  is  true?" 

She  handed  him  the  telegram.  Taking  it 
from  her,  he  read  it  in  silence.  Then:  "Dear 
Lady  Ingleby,"  he  said,  very  gently,  "I  fear 
there  is  no  doubt.  He  has  given  his  life  for 
his  country.  You  will  be  as  brave  in  giving 
him,  as  he  would  wish  his  wife  to  be." 

Myra  smiled;  but  the  doctor  saw  her  face 
dy  whit 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "oh,  yes!  T  will  not  fail 
him.     I  will  be  a  —at  last."     Then,  as 


44  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


if  a  sudden  thought  had  struck  her:  "  Did  you 
know  of  this  ?     Is  it  why  you  came  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  slowly.  "The 
duchess  sent  me.  She  was  at  the  War  Office 
this  morning  when  the  news  came  in,  inquiring 
for  Ronald  Ingram,  who  has  been  wounded, 
and  is  down  with  fever.  She  telephoned  for 
me,  and  insisted  on  the  telegram  being  kept 
back  until  six  o'clock  this  evening,  in  order  to 
give  me  time  to  get  here,  and  to  break  the 
news  to  you  first,  if  it  seemed  well." 

Myra  gazed  at  him,  wide-eyed.  "And  you  let 
me  say  all  that,  about  Michael  and  myself?" 

"Dear  lady,"  said  the  doctor,  and  few 
had  ever  heard  that  deep  firm  voice,  so  nearly 
tremulous,  "  I  could  not  stop  you.  But  you 
did  not  say  one  word  which  was  not  absolutely 
loving  and  loyal." 

"How  could  I  have?"  queried  Myra,  her 
face  growing  whiter,  and  her  eyes  wider  and 
more  bright.  "I  have  never  had  a  thought 
which  was  not  loyal  and  loving." 

"I  know,"  said  the  doctor.  "Poor  brave 
heart, — I  know." 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  45 

Myra  took  up  the  telegram,  and  read  it 
again. 

"Killed,"  she  said;  "killed.  I  wish  I  knew 
how." 

"The  duchess  is  ready  to  come  to  you 
immediately,  if  you  would  like  to  have  her," 
suggested  the  doctor. 

"No,"  said  Myra,  smiling  vaguely.  "No; 
I  think  not.  Not  unless  dear  mamma  comes. 
If  that  happens  we  must  wire  for  the  duchess, 
because  now — now  Michael  is  away — she  is 
the  only  person  who  can  cope  with  mamma. 
But  please  not,  otherwise;  because — well, 
you  see, — she  said  she  could  not  live  up  to 
Michael;  and  it  does  not  sound  funny  now." 

"Is  there  anybody  you  would  wish  sent  for 
at  once?"  inquired  the  doctor,  wondering 
how  much  larger  and  brighter  those  big  grey 

cs  could  grow;  and  whether  any  living  face 

1  ever  been  so  absolutely  colourless. 

"A:  A  ody  I  should  wish  sent  for  at  once? 
I  don't  know.  Oh,  yes — there  is  one  person; 
if  ould  OOme.     Jane — you  know?     Jane 

Dal  main.     I  always  say  she  is  like  the  bass  of 


46  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

a  tune;  so  solid,  and  satisfactory,  and  beneath 
one.  Nothing  very  bad  could  happen,  if 
Jane  were  there.  But  of  course  this  has 
happened;  has  n't  it  ?  " 

The  doctor  sat  down. 

"I   wired  to  Gleneesh  this  morning,"  he 

said.  "Jane  will  be  here  early  to-morrow." 

"Then  lots  of  people  knew  before  I  did?" 
said  Lady  Ingleby. 

The  doctor  did  not  answer. 

She  rose,  and  stood  looking  down  into  the 
fire;  her  tall  graceful  figure  drawn  up  to  its 
full  height,  her  back  to  the  doctor,  whose 
watchful  eyes  never  left  her  for  an  instant. 

Suddenly  she  looked  across  to  Lord  Ingle- 
by's  chair. 

"And  I  believe  Peter  knew,"  she  said,  in  a 
loud,  high-pitched  voice.  "Good  heavens! 
Peter  knew;  and  refused  his  food  because 
Michael  was  dead.  And  /  said  he  had 
dyspepsia!  Michael,  oh  Michael!  Your  wife 
didn't  know  you  were  dead;  but  your  dog 
knew!  Oh  Michael,  Michael!  Little  Peter 
knew!" 


WHAT  PETER  KNEW  47 

She  lifted  her  arms  toward  the  picture  of 
the  big  man  and  the  tiny  dog. 
Then  she  swayed  backward. 
The  doctor  caught  her,  as  she  fell. 


CHAPTER  IV 


IN  SAFE  HANDS 


A  LL  through  the  night  Lady  Ingleby  lay 
gazing  before  her,  with  bright  unseeing 
eyes. 

The  quiet  woman  from  the  Lodge,  who  had 
been,  before  her  own  marriage,  a  devoted 
maid-companion  to  Lady  Ingleby,  arrived  in 
speechless  sorrow,  and  helped  the  doctor 
tenderly  with  all  there  was  to  do. 

But  when  consciousness  returned,  and 
realisation,  they  were  accompanied  by  no 
natural  expressions  of  grief;  simply  a  settled 
stony  silence;  the  white  set  face;  the  bright 
unseeing  eyes. 

Margaret   O'Mara   knelt,    and   wept,    and 

prayed,  kissing  the  folded  hands  upon  the 

silken  quilt.     But  Lady  Ingleby  merely  smiled 

48 


IN  SAFE  HANDS  49 

vaguely;  and  once  she  said:  "Hush,  my  dear 
Maggie.     At  last  we  will  be  adequate." 

Several  times  during  the  night  the  doctor 
came,  sitting  silently  beside  the  bed,  with 
watchful  eyes  and  quiet  touch.  Myra  scarcely 
noticed  him,  and  again  he  wondered  how 
much  larger  the  big  grey  eyes  would  grow,  in 
the  pale  setting  of  that  lovely  face. 

Once  he  signed  to  the  other  watcher  to 
follow  him  into  the  corridor.  Closing  the 
door,  he  turned  and  faced  her.  He  liked  this 
quiet  woman,  in  her  simple  black  merino 
gown,  linen  collar  and  cuffs,  and  neatly 
braided  hair.  There  was  an  air  of  refinement 
and  gentle  self-control  about  her,  which 
pleased  the  doctor. 

"Mrs.  O'Mara,"  he  said;  "she  must  weep, 
and  she  must  sleep." 

"She  does  not  weep  easily,  sir,"  replied 
Margaret  O'Mara,  "and  I  have  known  her 
to  lie  widely  awake  throughout  an  entire 
night  with  less  cause  for  sorrow  than  this." 

"Ah,"  id  the  doctor;  and  he  looked 
keenly  at  the  woman  from  the  Lodge.     "I 


50  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


wonder  what  else  you  have  known?"  he 
thought.  But  he  did  not  voice  the  conjecture. 
Deryck  Brand  rarely  asked  questions  of  a 
third  person.  His  patients  never  had  to  find 
out  that  his  knowledge  of  them  came  through 
the  gossip  or  the  breach  of  confidence  of 
others. 

At  last  he  could  allow  that  fixed  unseeing 
gaze  no  longer.  He  decided  to  do  what 
was  necessary,  with  a  quiet  nod,  in  response 
to  Margaret  O'Mara's  imploring  look.  He 
turned  back  the  loose  sleeve  of  the  silk  night- 
dress, one  firm  hand  grasped  the  soft  arm  be- 
neath it ;  the  other  passed  over  it  for  a  moment 
with  swift  skilful  pressure.  Even  Margaret's 
anxious  eyes  saw  nothing  more;  and  after- 
wards Myra  often  wondered  what  could  have 
caused  that  tiny  scar  upon  the  whiteness  of 
her  arm. 

Before  long  she  was  quietly  asleep.  The 
doctor  stood  looking  down  upon  her.  There 
was  tragedy  to  him  in  this  perfect  loveliness. 
Now  the  clear  candour  of  the  grey  eyes  was 
veiled,  the  childlike  look  was  no  longer  there. 


IN  SAFE  HANDS  51 

It  was  the  face  of  a  woman — and  of  a  woman 
who  had  lived,  and  who  had  suffered. 

Watching  it,  the  doctor  reviewed  the  history 
of  those  ten  years  of  wedded  life;  piecing  to- 
gether that  which  she  herself  had  told  him; 
his  own  shrewd  surmisings;  and  facts,  which 
were  common  knowledge. 

So  much  for  the  past.  The  present,  for  a 
few  hours  at  least,  was  merciful  oblivion. 
What  would  the  future  bring?  She  had 
bravely  and  faithfully  put  from  her  all  temp- 
tation to  learn  the  glory  of  life,  and  the  com- 
pleteness of  love,  from  any  save  from  her  own 
husband.  And  he  had  failed  to  teach.  Can 
the  deaf  teach  harmony,  or  the  blind  reveal 
the  beauties  of  blended  colour? 

But    the  future  held   no  such  limitations. 

The  "garden  enclosed"  was  no  longer  barred 

against  all  others  by  an  owner  who  ignore  i 

ranee.    The  gal         mid   be  on   the 

latch,  though  all  uneonscious  until  an  eager 

hand  pi        '  it,  that  its  bolts  and  bars  w» 

gone,  and  it  dare  swing  open  wid 

Ah/1  mused  the  doctor.    "Will  the  right 


52  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

man  pass  by?  Youth  teaches  youth;  but  is 
there  a  man  amongst  us  strong  enough,  and 
true  enough,  and  pure  enough,  to  teach  this 
woman,  nearing  thirty,  lessons  which  should 
have  been  learned  during  the  golden  days  of 
girlhood.  Surely  somewhere  on  this  earth 
the  One  Man  walks,  and  works,  and  waits, 
to  whom  she  is  to  be  the  One  Woman?  God 
send  him  her  way,  in  the  fulness  of  time." 

•  •••••  • 

And  in  that  very  hour — while  at  last  M\±a. 
.slept,  and  the  doctor  watched,  and  mused, 
and  wondered — in  that  very  hour,  under  an 
Eastern  sky,  a  strong  man,  sick  of  life,  worn 
and  disillusioned,  fighting  a  deadly  fever,  in 
the  sultry  atmosphere  of  a  soldier's  tent, 
cried  out  in  bitterness  of  soul:  "O  God,  let 
me  die!"  Then  added  the  "  never- the-less " 
which  always  qualifies  a  brave  soul's  prayer 
for  immunity  from  pain:  "Unless — unless,  O 
God,  there  be  still  some  work  left  on  this  earth 
which  only  I  can  do." 

And  the  doctor  had  just  said:  "Send  him 
her  way,  O  God,  in  the  fulness  of  time." 


IN  SAFE  HANDS  53 

The  two  prayers  reached  the  Throne  of 
Omniscience  together. 


Deryck  Brand,  looking  up,  saw  the  quiet 
eyes  of  Margaret  O'Mara  gazing  gratefully 
at  him,  across  the  bed.  "Thank  you,"  she 
whispered. 

He  smiled.  "Never  to  be  done  lightly,  Mrs. 
O'Mara,"  he  said.  "Everything  else  should 
be  tried  first.  But  there  are  exceptions  to  the 
strictest  rules,  and  it  is  fatal  weakness  to 
hesitate  when  confronted  by  the  exception. 
Send  for  me,  when  she  wakes;  and,  meanwhile, 
lie  down  on  that  couch  yourself  and  have 
some  sleep.     You  are  worn  out." 

The  doctor  turned  away;  but  not  before  he 
had  caught  the  sudden  look  of  dumb  anguish 
which  leaped  into  those  quiet  eyes.  He 
re-ached  the  door;  paused  a  moment;  then 
came  bad:. 

"Mrs.  O'Mara,"  he  said,  with  a  hand  upon 
her  shoulder,  "you  have  a  sorrow  of  your 
own? 


•  i 


54         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

She  drew  away  from  him,  in  terror.  "Oh, 
hush!"  she  whispered.  "Don't  ask!  Don't 
unnerve  me,  sir.  Help  me  to  think  of  her, 
only."  Then,  more  calmly:  "But  of  course  I 
shall  think  of  none  but  her,  while  she  needs 
me.  Only — only,  sir — as  you  are  so  kind — " 
she  drew  from  her  bosom  a  crumpled  telegram, 
and  handed  it  to  the  doctor.  "Mine  came 
at  the  same  time  as  hers,"  she  said,  simply. 

The  doctor  unfolded  the  War  Office  message. 

Regret  to  report  Sergeant  0'  Mara  killed  in 
assault  on  Targai  yesterday, 

"He  was  a  good  husband,"  said  Margaret 
O'Mara,  simply;  "and  we  were  very  happy." 

The  doctor  held  out  his  hand.  "I  am 
proud  to  have  met  you,  Mrs.  O'Mara. 
This  seems  to  me  the  bravest  thing  I  have 
ever  known  a  woman  do." 

She  smiled  through  her  tears.  "Thank 
you,  sir,"  she  said,  tremulously.  "But  it  is 
easier  to  bear  my  own  sorrow,  when  I  have 
work  to  do  for  her." 

"God   Himself  comfort  you,   my  friend," 


IN  SAFE  HANDS  55 

said  Deryck  Brand,  and  it  was  all  he  could 
trust  his  voice  to  say;  nor  was  he  ashamed 
that  he  had  to  fumble  blindly  for  the  handle 
of  the  door. 


The  doctor  had  finished  breakfast,  and  was 
asking  Groatley  for  a  time-table,  when  word 
reached  him  that  Lady  Ingleby  was  awake. 
He  went  up-stairs  immediately. 

Myra  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  propped  with 
pillows.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed;  her  eyes 
bright  and  hard. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  the  doctor. 

"How  good  you  have  been,"  she  said, 
speaking  very  fast,  in  a  high  unnatural  voice: 
"I  am  afraid  I  have  given  you  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.  I  don't  remember  much  about  last 
night,  excepting  that  they  said  Michael  had 

en  killed.  Has  Michael  really  been  kill  , 
do  you  think?     And  will  they  gh  details? 

Surely  I  have  a  right  to  know  detail:;.  No- 
thing can  alter  the  fact  that    I  was  Michael's 

wife,  can  it?    Do  go  to  bre  '       t,  Maggie. 


56  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


There  is  nothing  gained  by  standing  there, 
smiling,  and  saying  you  do  not  want  any 
breakfast.  Everybody  wants  breakfast  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  /  should  want 
breakfast,  if  Michael  had  not  been  killed. 
Tell  her  she  ought  to  have  breakfast,  Sir 
Deryck.  I  believe  she  has  been  up  all  night. 
It  is  such  a  comfort  to  have  her.  She  is  so 
brave  and  bright;  and  so  full  of  sympathy." 

"She  is  very  brave,"  said  the  doctor; 
"and  you  are  right  as  to  her  need  of  breakfast. 
Go  down-stairs  for  a  little  while,  Mrs.  O'Mara. 
I  will  stay  with  Lady  Ingleby." 

She  moved  obediently  to  the  door;  but  Sir 
Deryck  reached  it  before  her.  And  the 
famous  London  specialist  held  the  door  open 
for  the  sergeant's  young  widow,  with  an  air 
of  deference  such  as  he  would  hardly  have 
bestowed  upon  a  queen. 

Then  he  came  back  to  Lady  Ingleby.  His 
train  left  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  But  his 
task  here  was  not  finished.  She  had  slept; 
but  before  he  dare  leave  her,  she  must  weep. 

"Where   is   Peter?"    inquired   the  excited 


77V  SAFE  HANDS  57 

voice  from  the  bed.  "He  always  barks  to  be 
let  out,  in  the  morning;  but  I  have  heard 
nothing  of  him  yet." 

"He  was  exhausted  last  night,  poor  little 
chap,"  said  the  doctor.  "He  could  scarcely 
walk.  I  carried  him  up,  myself;  and  put  him 
on  the  bed  in  the  next  room.  The  coat  was 
still  there.  I  wrapped  him  in  it.  He  licked 
my  hand,  and  lay  down,  content." 

"I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Lady  Ingleby. 
"Michael  loved  him.  He  seems  all  I  have 
left  of  Michael." 

"I  will  fetch  him,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  went  into  the  adjoining  room,  leaving 
the  door  ajar.  Myra  heard  him  reach  the 
bed.     Then  followed  a  long  silence. 

"What  is  it?"  she  called  at  last.  "Is  he 
not  there?     Why  are  you  so  long?" 

Then  the  doctor  came  back.  He  carried 
something  in  his  arms,  wrapped  in  the  old 
shooting  jacket. 

"  Deal  Lady  Ingleby,"  he  said,  "little  Peter 
is  dead.  He  must  have  died  during  the  night, 
in  his  Bleep.     He  was  lying  just  as  I  left  him, 


58  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

curled  up  in  the  coat ;  but  he  is  quite  cold  and 
stiff.  Faithful  little  heart!"  said  the  doctor, 
with  emotion,  holding  his  burden,  tenderly. 

"What!"  cried  Myra,  with  both  arms  out- 
stretched. "Peter  has  died,  because  Michael 
is  dead;  and  I — I  have  not  even  shed  a  tear!" 
She  fell  back  among  the  pillows  in  a  paroxysm 
of  weeping. 

The  doctor  stood  by,  silently;  uncertain 
what  to  do.  Myra's  sobs  grew  more  violent, 
shaking  the  bed  with  their  convulsive  force. 
Then  she  began  to  shriek  inarticulately  about 
Michael  and  Peter,  and  to  sob  again,  with 
renewed  violence. 

At  that  moment  the  doctor  heard  the  horn 
of  a  motor-car  in  the  avenue;  then,  almost 
immediately,  the  clang  of  the  bell,  and  the 
sounds  of  an  arrival  below.  A  look  of  im- 
mense relief  came  into  his  face.  He  went 
to  the  top  of  the  great  staircase,  and  looked 
over. 

The  Honourable  Mrs.  Dalmain  had  arrived. 
The  doctor  saw  her  tall  figure,  in  a  dark  green 
travelling  coat,  walk  rapidly  across  the  hall. 


IN  SAFE  HANDS  59 

"Jane!"  he  said.  "Jeanette!  Ah,  I  knew 
you  would  not  fail  us!  Come  straight  up. 
You   have   arrived    at   the   right   moment " 

Jane  looked  up,  and  saw  the  doctor  stand- 
ing at  the  top  of  the  stairs ;  something  wrapped 
in  an  old  coat,  held  carefully  in  his  arms.  She 
threw  him  one  smile  of  greeting  and  assurance; 
then,  wasting  no  time  in  words,  rapidly 
pulled  off  her  coat,  hat,  and  fur  gloves,  flinging 
them  in  quick  succession  to  the  astonished 
butler.  The  doctor  only  waited  to  see  her 
actually  mounting  the  stairs.  Then,  passing 
through  Lady  Ingleby's  room,  he  laid  Peter's 
little  body  back  on  his  dead  master's  bed, 
still  wrapped  in  the  old  tweed  coat. 

As  he  stepped  back  into  Lady  Ingleby's 
room,  closing  the  door  between,  he  saw  Jane 
Dalmain  kneel  down  beside  the  bed,  and 
gather  the  weeping  form  into  her  arms,  with 
a  gesture  of  immense  protective  tenderness. 

"Oh  Jane,"  sobbed  Lady  Ingleby,  as  she 
hid   1  ce  in   the  sweet  comfort  of  that 

gei  is  bosom;  "Oh  Jane!  Michael  has  been 
killed!  And  litt!-   i  lied,  because  Michael 


60         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


was  dead.     Little  Peter  died,  and  /  had  not 
even  shed  a  tear!" 

The  doctor  passed  quickly  out,  closing  the 
door  behind  him.  He  did  not  wait  to  hear 
the  answer.  He  knew  it  would  be  wise,  and 
kind,  and  right.  He  left  his  patient  in  safe 
hands.  Jane  was  there,  at  last.  All  would 
be  well. 


CHAPTER  V 


LADY  INGLEBY'S  REST-CURE 


CROM  the  moment  when  the  express  for 
Cornwall  had  slowly  but  irrevocably 
commenced  to  glide  away  from  the  Paddington 
platform;  when  she  had  looked  her  last  upon 
Margaret  O'Mara's  anxious  devoted  face, 
softly  framed  in  her  simple  widow's  bonnet; 
when  she  had  realised  that  her  somewhat 
original  rest-cure  had  really  safely  commenced, 
and  that  she  was  leaving,  not  only  her  worries, 
but  her  very  identity  behind  her — Lady  Ingle- 
by  had  leaned  back  with  closed  eyes  in  a  corner 
of  her  reserved  compartment,  and  given  her- 
self up  to  quiet  retrospection. 

The  face,  in  repose,  was  sad — a  quiet  sad- 
ness, as  of  regret  which  held  no  bitterness. 
The  cheek,   upon   which   the  dark   fringe  of 


62  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

lashes  rested,  was  white  and  thin  having  lost 
the  tint  and  contour  of  perfect  health.  But, 
every  now  and  then,  during  those  hours  of 
retrospection,  the  wistful  droop  of  the  sweet 
expressive  mouth  curved  into  a  smile,  and  a 
dimple  peeped  out  unexpectedly,  giving  a 
look  of  youthfulness  to  the  tired  face. 

When  London  and  its  suburbs  were  com- 
pletely left  behind,  and  the  summer  sunshine 
blazed  through  the  window  from  the  clear 
blue  of  a  radiant  June  sky,  Lady  Ingleby 
leaned  forward,  watching  the  rapid  unfolding 
of  country  lanes  and  hedges;  wide  commons, 
golden  with  gorse;  fir  woods,  carpeted  with 
blue-bells;  mossy  banks,  overhung  with  wild 
roses,  honeysuckle,  and  traveller's-joy;  the 
indescribable  greenness  and  soft  fragrance  of 
England  in  early  summer;  and,  as  she  watched, 
a  responsive  light  shone  in  her  sweet  grey  eyes. 
The  drear  sadness  of  autumn,  the  deadness  of 
winter,  the  chill  uncertainty  of  spring — all 
these  were  over  and  gone.  "Flowers  appear 
on  the  earth;  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
is  come,"  murmurs  the  lover  of  Canticles;  and 


LADY  INGLEBY'S  REST-CURE  63 

in  Myra  Ingleby's  sad  heart  there  blossomed 
timidly,  flowers  of  hope;  vague  promise  of 
future  joy,  which  life  might  yet  hold  in  store. 
A  blackbird  in  the  hawthorn,  trilled  gaily;  and 
Myra  softly  sang,  to  an  air  of  Garth  Dalmain's, 
the  "Blackbird's  Song." 

"Wake,  wake, 

Sad  heart! 

Rise  up,  and  sing! 
On  God's  fair  earth,  'mid  blossoms  blue, 

Fresh  hope  must  ever  spring. 
There  is  no  room  for  sad  despair, 
When  heaven's  love  is  everywhere." 

Then,  as  the  train  sped  onward  through 
Wiltshire,  Somerset,  and  Devon,  Lady  Ingleby 
felt  the  mantle  of  h>  ipondence  slipping 

from  her,  and  reviewed  the  past,  much  as  a 
prisoner  might  glance  back  into  his  dark 
narrow  cell,  from  the  sunlight  of  the  open  door, 
K>d  at  last  on  the  threshold  of  liberty. 
i  months  had  gone  by  since,  on  that 
chill  November  i  ening,  the  news  of  Lord 
Ii  Leath  had  reached  Shenstone.    T 

happenings  of  t:  which  followed,  now 


64  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

— ^—— ^ 1^ ^— ^^^^^^^^^^^^—^-^—  ■       ■■■!■■       .1  — — — — I—— — 

seemed  vague  and  dreamlike  to  Myra,  just 
a  few  events  standing  out  clearly  from  the 
dim  blur  of  misery.  She  remembered  the 
reliable  strength  of  the  doctor;  the  unselfish 
devotion  of  Margaret  O'Mara;  the  unspeak- 
able comfort  of  Jane's  wholesome  understand- 
ing tenderness.  Then  the  dreaded  arrival  of  her 
mother;  followed,  immediately,  according  to 
promise,  by  the  protective  advent  of  Georgina, 
Duchess  of  Meldrum ;  after  which,  tragedy  and 
comedy  walked  hand  in  hand;  and  the  silence 
of  mourning  was  enlivened  by  the  "Hoity- 
toity!"  of  the  duchess,  and  the  indignant 
sniffs  of  Mrs.  Coller-Cray. 

Later  on,  details  of  Lord  Ingleby's  death 
came  to  hand,  and  his  widow  had  to  learn  that 
he  had  fallen — at  the  attempt  upon  Targai, 
it  is  true — but  the  victim  of  an  accident; 
losing  his  life,  not  at  the  hands  of  the  savage 
enemy,  but  through  the  unfortunate  blunder 
of  a  comrade.  Myra  never  very  clearly 
grasped  the  details: — a  wall  to  be  undermined; 
his  own  patent  and  fearful  explosive;  the 
grim  enthusiasm  with  which  he  insisted  upon 


LADY  INGLEBY'S  REST-CURE  65 

placing  it  himself,  arranging  to  have  it  fired 
by  his  patent  electrical  plan.  Then  the  mis- 
taking of  a  signal ;  the  fatal  pressing  of  a  but- 
ton five  minutes  too  soon;  an  electric  flash 
in  the  mine,  a  terrific  explosion,  and  instant 
death  to  the  man  whose  skill  and  courage  had 
made  the  gap  through  which  crowds  of  cheer- 
ing British  soldiers,  bursting  from  the  silent 
darkness,  dashed  to  expectant  victory. 

When  full  details  reached  the  War  Office, 
a  Very  Great  Personage  called  at  her  house  in 
Park  Lane  personally  to  explain  to  Lady 
Ingleby  the  necessity  for  the  hushing  up  of 
some  of  these  greatly-to-be-deplored  facts. 
The  whole  unfortunate  occurrence  had  largely 
partaken  of  the  nature  of  an  experiment. 
The  explosive,  the  new  method  of  signalling, 
the  portable  electric  plant — all  these  were 
being  used  by  Lord  Ingleby  and  the  young 
officers  who  assisted  him,  more  or  less 
experimentally  and  unofficially.  The  man 
whose  unfortunate  mistake  caused  the  ac- 
ci'lcnt  had  an  important  career  before  him. 
His  name  must  not  be  allowed  to  transpire. 


66  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

It  would  be  unfair  that  a  future  of  great 
promise  should  be  blighted  by  what  was  an 
obvious  accident.  The  few  to  whom  the 
name  was  known  had  been  immediately 
pledged  to  secrecy.  Of  course  it  would  be 
confidentially  given  to  Lady  Ingleby  if  she 
really  desired  to  hear  it,  but 

Then  Myra  took  a  very  characteristic  line. 
She  sat  up  with  instant  decision ;  her  pale  face 
flushed,  and  her  large  pathetic  grey  eyes  shone 
with  sudden  brightness. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  she  said,  "for  interposing; 
but  I  never  wish  to  know  that  name.  My 
husband  would  have  been  the  first  to  desire 
that  it  should  not  be  told.  And,  personally, 
I  should  be  sorry  that  there  should  be  any 
man  on  earth  whose  hand  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  touch  in  friendship.  The  hand  that 
•  widowed  me,  did  so  without  intention.  Let 
it  remain  always  to  me  an  abstract  instrument 
of  the  will  of  Providence.  I  shall  never  even 
try  to  guess  to  which  of  Michael's  comrades 
that  hand  belonged." 

Lady  Ingleby  was  honest  in    making  this 


LADY  lNGLEBYrS  REST-CURE  67 

decision;  and  the  Very  Great  Personage 
stepped  into  his  brougham,  five  minutes  later, 
greatly  relieved,  and  filled  with  admiration  for 
Lord  Ingleby's  beautiful  and  right-minded 
widow.  She  had  always  been  all  that  was 
most  charming.  Now  she  added  sound  good 
sense,  to  personal  charm.  Excellent!  In- 
comparable! Poor  Ingleby!  Poor —  Ah!  he 
must  not  be  mentioned,  even  in  thought. 

Yes;  Lady  Ingleby  was  absolutely  honest 
in  coming  to  her  decision.  And  yet,  from 
that  moment,  two  names  revolved  perpetually 
in  her  mind,  around  a  ceaseless  question — the 
only  men  mentioned  constantly  by  Michael 
in  his  letters  as  being  always  with  him  in  his 
i  periments,  sharing  his  interests  and  his  dan- 
:  Ronald  Ingram,  and  BillyCathcart — dear 
boys,  both;  her  devoted  adorers;  almost  her 
'.  closest  friend.-;  faithful,  trusted,  tried. 
And  now  the  haunting  question  circled  around 
all  thought  of  them:  "Was  it  Ronald?  Or 
was  it  Billy?  Which?  Hilly  or  Ronnie? 
Ronnie  mi-  Hilly?"  Myra  had  Said:  "I  shall 
newr  even  try  to  gu<      ."   and   she  had   said 


68  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

it  honestly.  She  did  not  try  to  guess.  She 
guessed,  in  spite  of  trying  not  to  do  so;  and 
the  certainty,  and  yet  zwcertainty  of  her 
surmisings  told  on  her  nerves,  becoming  a 
cause  of  mental  torment  which  was  with  her, 
subconsciously,  night  and  day. 

Time  went  on.  The  frontier  war  was  over. 
England,  as  ever,  had  been  bound  to  win  in  the 
end;  and  England  had  won.  It  had  merely 
been  a  case  of  time;  of  learning  wisdom  by  a 
series  of  initial  mistakes;  of  expending  a  large 
amount  of  British  gold  and  British  blood. 
England's  supremacy  was  satisfactorily  as- 
serted; and,  those  of  her  brave  troops  who  had 
survived  the  initial  mistakes,  came  home; 
among  them  Ronald  Ingram  and  Billy  Cath- 
cart ;  the  former  obviously  older  than  when  he 
went  away,  gaunt  and  worn,  pale  beneath  his 
bronze,  showing  unmistakable  signs  of  the 
effects  of  a  severe  wound  and  subsequent 
fever.  "Too  interesting  for  words,"  said  the 
Duchess  of  Meldrum  to  Lady  Ingleby,  re- 
counting her  first  sight  of  him.  "If  only  I 
were  fifty  years  younger  than  I  am,  I  would 


LADY  INGLEBY'S  REST-CURE  69 

marry  the  dear  boy  immediately,  take  him 
down  to  Overdene,  and  nurse  him  back  to 
health  and  strength.  Oh,  you  need  not  look 
incredulous,  my  dear  Myra!  I  always 
mean  what  I  say,  as  you  very  well 
know." 

But  Lady  Ingleby  denied  all  suspicion  of 
incredulity,  and  merely  suggested  languidly, 
that — bar  the  matrimonial  suggestion — the 
programme  was  an  excellent  one,  and  might 
well  be  carried  out.  Young  Ronald  being  of 
the  same  opinion,  he  was  soon  installed  at 
Overdene,  and  had  what  he  afterwards  de- 
scribed as  the  time  of  his  life,  being  pampered, 
spoiled,  and  petted  by  the  dear  old  duchess, 
and  never  allowing  her  to  suspect  that  one  of 
the  chief  attractions  of  Overdene  lay  in  the 
fact  that  it  was  within  easy  motoring  distance 
of  Shenstone  Park. 

Billy  returned  as  young,  as  inconsequent,  as 
irrepressible  as  ever.  And  yet  in  him  also, 
Myra  was  conscious  of  a  subtle  change,  for 
Which  she,  all  too  readily,  found  a  reason,  far 
remi  <-.  ed  from  the  real  one. 


70  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


The  fact  was  this.  Both  young  men,  in 
their  romantic  devotion  to  her,  had  yet  been 
true  to  their  own  manhood,  and  loyal,  at 
heart,  to  Lord  Ingleby.  But  their  loyalty 
had  always  been  with  effort.  Therefore,  when 
— the  strain  relaxed — they  met  her  again,  they 
were  intensely  conscious  of  her  freedom  and 
of  their  own  resultant  liberty.  This  pro- 
duced in  them,  when  with  her,  a  restraint 
and  shyness  which  Myra  naturally  construed 
into  a  confirmation  of  her  own  suspicions. 
She,  having  never  found  it  the  smallest  effort 
to  remember  she  was  Michael's,  and  to  be 
faithful  in  every  thought  to  him,  was  quite 
unconscious  of  her  liberty.  There  having 
been  no  strain  in  remaining  true  to  the  in- 
stincts of  her  own  pure,  honest,  hon- 
ourable nature,  there  was  no  tension  to 
relax. 

So  it  very  naturally  came  to  pass  that  when 
one  day  Ronald  Ingram  had  sat  long  with  her, 
sihntly  studying  his  boots,  his  strong  face 
tense  and  miserable,  every  now  and  then 
looking  furtively  at  her,  then,  as  his  eyes  met 


LADY  INGLEBY'S  REST-CURE  71 

the  calm  friendliness  of  hers,  dropping  them 
again  to  the  floor: — "Poor  Ronnie,"  she 
mused,  "with  his  'important  career'  before 
him.  Undoubtedly  it  was  he  who  did  it. 
And  Billy  knows  it.  See  how  fidgety  Billy 
is,  while  Ronnie  sits  with  me." 

But  by-and-by  it  would  be:  "No;  of  course  ' 
it  was  Billy — dear  hot-headed  impulsive  young 
Billy;  and  Ronald,  knowing  it,  feels  guilty 
also.  Poor  little  Billy,  who  was  as  a  son  to 
Michael !  There  was  no  mistaking  the  emotion 
in  his  face  just  now,  when  I  merely  laid  my 
hand  on  his.  Oh,  impetuous  scatter-brained 
boy!  .  .  .  Dear  heavens!  I  wish  he  would  n't 
hand  me  the  bread-and-butter." 

Then,   into  this  atmosphere  of  misuncL 
standing   and   uncertainty,  intruded   a   fresh 

ment.     A    first-cousin   of   Lord    Ingleby's, 
to  whom  had  come  the  title,  minus  the  i 
ca:  conclusion  that  title  and  estates 

mighl  well  go  together.  To  that  end, 
intruding  upon  her  privacy  on  every  possible 
occasion,  he  to  pay  bu  .-like 

art  to  Lady  Engl 


72  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Thus  rudely  Myra  awoke  to  the  under- 
standing of  her  liberty.  At  once,  her  whole 
outlook  on  life  was  changed.  All  things  bore 
a  new  significance.  Ronnie  and  Billy  ceased 
to  be  comforts.  Ronnie's  nervous  misery 
assumed  a  new  importance;  and,  coupled 
with  her  own  suspicions,  filled  her  with  a  dis- 
mayed horror.  The  duchess's  veiled  jokes 
took  point,  and  hurt.  A  sense  of  unprotected 
loneliness  engulfed  her.  Every  man  became  a 
prospective  and  dreaded  suitor;  every  woman's 
remarks  seemed  to  hold  an  innuendo.  Her 
name  in  the  papers  distracted  her. 

She  recognised  the  morbidness  of  her  con- 
dition, even  while  she  felt  unable  to  cope  with 
it;  and,  leaving  Shenstone  suddenly,  came 
up  to  town,  and  consulted  Sir  Deryck  Brand. 

"Oh,  my  friend,"  she  said,  "help  me!  I 
shall  never  face  life  again." 

The  doctor  heard  her  patiently,  aiding  the 
recital  by  his  strong  understanding  silence. 

Then  he  said,  quietly:  "Dear  lady,  ths 
diagnosis  is  not  difficult.  Also  there  is  but 
one  possible  remedy."     He  paused. 


LADY  INGLEBY'S  REST-CURE  73 

Lady  Ingleby's  imploring  eyes  and  tense 
expectancy,  besought  his  verdict. 

"A  rest-cure,"  said  the  doctor,  with  finality. 

"Horrors,  no!"  cried  Myra;  "Would  you 
shut  me  up  within  four  walls;  cram  me  with 
rice  pudding  and  every  form  of  food  I  most 
detest;  send  a  dreadful  woman  to  pound, 
roll,  and  pommel  me,  and  tell  me  gruesome 
stories;  keep  out  all  my  friends,  all  letters,  all 
books,  all  news;  and,  after  six  weeks  send  me 
out  into  the  world  again,  with  my  figure  gone, 
and  not  a  sane  thought  upon  any  subject 
under  the  sun?  Dear  doctor,  think  of  it! 
Stout,  and  an  idiot!  Oh,  give  me  something 
in  a  bottle,  to  shake,  and  take  three  times  a 
day — and  let  me  go ! " 

The  doctor  smiled.  He  was  famed  for  his 
calm  patience. 

"Your  somewhat  highly  coloured  descrip- 
tion, dear  Lady  Ingleby,  applies  to  a  form  of 

t-cure  such  as  I  rarely,  if  ever,  recommend. 
In  your  it  would  be  worse  than  useless. 

We  should  gain  nothing  by  shutting  you  up 

ith  tin   <  •    >n  who  is  doing  you  harm, 


74  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

and  from  whom  we  must  contrive  your  escape." 

"The  one  person — ?"  queried  Myra,  wide- 
eyed. 

"A  charming  person,"  smiled  the  doctor, 
"where  the  rest  of  mankind  are  concerned; 
but  very  bad  for  you  just  now." 

"But — whom?"  questioned  Myra,  again. 
"Whom  can  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  Lady  Ingleby,"  replied  the  doctor, 
gravely.  "When  I  send  you  away  for  your 
rest-cure,  Lady  Ingleby  with  her  worries  and 
questionings,  doubts  and  fears,  must  be  left 
behind.  I  shall  send  you  to  a  little  out-of- 
the-world  village  on  the  wild  sea  coast  of 
Cornwall,  where  you  know  nobody,  and  no- 
body knows  you.  You  must  go  incognito,  as 
'Miss'  or  'Mrs.' — anything  you  please.  Your 
rest-cure  will  consist  primarily  in  being  set 
free,  for  a  time,  from  Lady  Ingleby's  position, 
predicament,  and  perplexities.  You  must 
send  word  to  all  intimate  friends,  telling 
them  you  are  going  into  retreat,  and  they 
must  not  write  until  they  hear  again.  You 
will  have  leave  to  write  one  letter  a  week,  to 


LADY  INGLEBY'S  REST-CURE  75 

one  person  only;  and  that  person  must  be 
one  of  whom  I  can  approve.  You  must  eat 
plenty  of  wholesome  food ;  roam  about  all  day 
long  in  the  open-air;  rise  early,  retire  early; 
live  entirely  in  a  simple,  beautiful,  wholesome 
present,  firmly  avoiding  all  remembrance  of  a 
sad  past,  and  all  anticipation  of  an  uncertain 
future.  Nobody  is  to  know  where  you  are, 
excepting  myself,  and  the  one  friend  to  whom 
you  may  write.  But  we  will  arrange  that 
somebody — say,  for  instance,  your  devoted 
attendant  from  the  Lodge,  shall  hold  herself 
free  to  come  to  you  at  an  hour's  notice,  should 
you  be  overwhelmed  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  loneliness.  The  knowledge  of  this,  will 
probabl;  p  the  need  from  arising.     You 

can  communicate  with  me  daily  if  you  like,  by 
r  or  by  telegram;  but  other  people  must 
not  know  v.  you  «  I  do  not  wish  you 

anxious  on  I  boughts  of 

man;.  To-morrow  I  will  give  you  the 

name  of  a  place  I  L,  and  of  a  com- 

fortable hotel  where  y  Ler  rooms. 

It  be  a  place  you  have  never  seen,  pro- 


76         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

bably  one  of  which  you  have  never  heard.  We 
are  nearing  the  end  of  May.  I  should  like  you 
to  start  on  the  first  of  June.  If  you  want  a 
house-party  at  Shenstone  this  summer,  you 
may  invite  your  guests  for  the  first  of  July. 
Lady  Ingleby  will  be  at  home  again  by  then, 
fully  able  to  maintain  her  reputation  as  a 
hostess  of  unequalled  charm,  graciousness, 
and  popularity.  Morbid  self-consciousness 
is  a  condition  of  mind  from  which  you  have 
hitherto  been  so  completely  free,  that  this  un- 
expected attack  has  altogether  unnerved  you, 
and  requires  prompt  and  uncompromising 
measures.  .  .  .  Yes,  Jane  Dalmain  may  be 
your  correspondent.  You  could  not  have 
chosen  better." 

This  was  the  doctor's  verdict  and  pre- 
scription; and,  as  his  patients  never  disputed 
the  one,  or  declined  to  take  the  other,  Myra 
found  herself,  on  "the  glorious  first  of  June" 
flying  south  in  the  Great  Western  express, 
bound  for  the  little  fishing  village  of  Tregarth 
where  she  had  ordered  rooms  at  the  Moor- 
head  Inn,  in  the  name  of  Mrs.  O'Mara. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT   THE  MOORHEAD  INN 

HPHE  ruddy  glow  of  a  crimson  sunset 
illumined  cliff  and  hamlet,  tinting  the 
distant  ocean  into  every  shade  of  golden 
glory,  as  Myra  walked  up  the  gravelled  path 
to  the  rustic  porch  of  the  Moorhead  Inn,  and 
looked  around  her  with  a  growing  sense  of 
excited  refreshment. 

She  had  come  on  foot  from  the  little  way- 
side station,  her  luggage  following  in  a  bar- 
row; and  this  mode  of  progression,  minus  a 
footman    and    maid,    and    carrying   her   own 
,    umbrella,    and  travelling-bag,  was  in 

r     If  a  charming  novelty. 

door,    she    was    received    by    the 

proprietress,  a  stately  lady  in    black  satin, 

a  double  n>w  of  large  jet  beads,  who 

reminded  her  instantly  of  all  Lord  Ingleby'i 

77 


78         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

maiden  aunts.  She  seemed  an  accentuated, 
dignified,  concentrated  embodiment  of  them 
all;  and  Myra  longed  for  Billy,  to  share  the 
joke. 

"Aunt  Ingleby"  requested  Mrs.  O'Mara  to 
walk  in,  and  hoped  she  had  had  a  pleasant 
journey.  Then  she  rang  a  very  loud  bell 
twice,  in  or^er  to  summon  a  maid  to  show  her 
to  her  room;  and,  the  maid  not  appearing  at 
once,  requested  Mrs.  O'Mara  meanwhile  to 
write  her  name  in  the  visitors'  book. 

Lady  Ingleby  walked  into  the  hall,  passing 
a  smoking-room  on  the  left,  and,  noting  a 
door,  with  "Coffee  Room"  upon  it  in  gold 
lettering,  down  a  short  passage  immediately 
opposite.  Up  from  the  centre  of  the  hall,  on 
her  right,  went  the  rather  wide  old-fashioned 
staircase;  and  opposite  to  it,  against  the  wall, 
between  the  smoking-room  and  a  door  labelled 
"Reception  Room,"  stood  a  marble-topped 
table.  Lying  open  upon  this  table  was  a 
ponderous  visitors'  book.  A  fresh  page  had 
been  recently  commenced,  as  yet  only  con- 
taining four  names.      The   first  three  were 


AT  THE  MOORHEAD  INN  79 

dated    May  the   8th,  and  read,   in   crabbed 

precise  writing: 

Miss  Amelia  Murgatroyd      ) 

--._,-.      , ,.  .  Lawn  Vtew, 

Miss  Eliza  Murgatroyd  r  _ 

i  1  utney. 

Miss  Susannah  Murgatroyd  J 

Below  these,  bearing  date  a  week  later,  in 
small  precise  writing  of  unmistakable  character 
and  clearness,  the  name: 

Jim  Air  Ik London. 

Pen  and  ink  lay  ready,  and,  without  trou- 
bling to  remove  her  glove,  Lady  Ingleby 
wrote  beneath,  in  large,  somewhat  sprawling, 
handwriting: 

Mrs.   O'Mara The  Lodge,   Shcnstonc. 

A  maid  appeared,  took  her  cloak  and  bag, 
and  ]>■■       '    1  her  up  the  stairs. 

As  si  I   the  turn  of  the  staircase, 

I.  idy  Ingleby  paused,  and  looked  back  into 
hall. 

T!  r  of  the  smoking-room  opened,  and 

tall  man  came  out,  taking  a  pipe  from 

the  N   rfolk  j         ,    As 

hall,  his  face  reminded 
her  of  Ronnie's,  deep-bronzed  and  thin;  only 


80         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

it  was  an  older  face — strong,  rugged,  purpose- 
ful. The  heavy  brown  moustache  could  not 
hide  the  massive  cut  of  chin  and  jaw. 

Catching  sight  of  a  fresh  name  in  the  book, 
he  paused;  then  laying  one  large  hand  upon 
the  table,  bent  over  and  read  it. 

Myra  stood  still  and  watched,  noting  the 
broad  shoulders,  and  the  immense  length  of 
limb  in  the  leather  leggings. 

He  appeared  to  study  the  open  page  longer 
than  was  necessary  for  the  mere  reading  of 
the  name.  Then,  without  looking  round, 
reached  up,  took  a  cap  from  the  antler  of  a 
stag's  head  high  up  on  the  wall,  stuck  it  on  the 
back  of  his  head;  swung  round,  and  went  out 
through  the  porch,  whistling  like  a  black- 
bird. 

"Jim  Airth,"  said  Myra  to  herself,  as  she 
moved  slowly  on;  "Jim  Airth  of  London. 
What  an  address !  He  might  just  as  well  have 
put:  'of  the  world!'  A  cross  between  a 
guardsman  and  a  cowboy;  and  very  likely  he 
will  turn  out  to  be  a  commercial-traveller." 
Then,  as  she  reached  the  landing  and  came  in 


AT  THE  MOORHEAD  INN  81 

sight  of  the  rosy-cheeked  maid,  holding  open 
the  door  of  a  large  airy  bedroom,  she  added 
with  a  whimsical  smile:  "All  the  same,  I  wish 
I  had  taken  the  trouble  to  write  more  neatly." 


CHAPTER  VII 

mrs.  o'mara's  correspondence 

Letter  from  Lady  Ingleby  to  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Dalmain. 

The  Moorhead  Inn, 
Tregarth,  Cornwall. 

My  dear  Jane, 

Having  been  here  a  week,  I  think  it  is  time 
I  commenced  my  first  letter  to  you. 

How  does  it  feel  to  be  a  person  considered 
pre-eminently  suitable  to  minister  to  a  mind 
diseased?  Does  n't  it  give  you  a  sense  of 
being,  as  it  were,  rice  pudding,  or  Brand's 
essence,  or  Maltine;  something  essentially  safe 
and  wholesome?  You  should  have  heard  how 
Sir  Deryck  jumped  at  you,  as  soon  as  your 
name  was  mentioned,  tentatively,  as  my  possi- 
ble correspondent.      I  had  barely  whispered 

it,  when  he  leapt,   and  clinched  the  matter. 

82 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     83 

I  believe  "wholesome"  was  an  adjective  men- 
tioned. I  hope  you  do  not  mind,  dear  Jane. 
I  must  confess,  I  would  sooner  be  macaroons 
or  oyster-patties,  even  at  the  risk  of  giving 
my  friends  occasional  indigestion.  But  then  I 
have  never  gone  in  for  the  rdle  of  being  helpful, 
in  which  you  excel.  Not  that  it  is  a  "role"  with 
you,  dear  Jane.  Rather,  it  is  an  essential 
character  You  walk  in,  and  find  a  hope- 

less tangle;  gather  up  the  threads  in  those 
firm  capable  hands;  deftly  sort  and  hold 
them;  and,  lo,  the  tangle  is  over;  the  skein  of 
life  is  once  more  ready  for  winding! 

Well,  there  is  not  much  tangle  about  me 
just  now,  thanks  to  our  dear  doctor's  most 
excellent  prescription.  It  was  a  veritable 
stroke  of  genius,  this  setting  me  free  from 
myself.     Prom    the    first    day,    the    sense    of 

in  h  '  ile.     I  enjoy  1 

I   as  "  M .  "        " ;   I   revel  in  being 
without  a  maid,  though   it  to 

do  my  hair,  and    1    have  serious  thou 

it  in  pij  q  my  1    ck!    When 

I  re  poor,  hai  ■  !, 


84  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


society-self  I  left  behind,  I  feel  like  buying  a 
wooden  spade  and  bucket  and  starting  out, 
all  by  myself,  to  build  sand-castles  on  this 
delightful  shore.  I  have  no  one  to  play  with, 
for  I  am  certain  the  Miss  Murgatroyds — I 
am  going  to  tell  you  of  them — never  made 
sand-castles;  no,  not  even  in  their  infancy, 
a  century  ago !  They  must  always  have  been 
the  sort  of  children  who  wore  white  frilled 
bloomers,  poplin  frocks,  and  large  leghorn 
hats  with  ribbons  tied  beneath  their  excellent 
little  chins,  and  walked  demurely  with  their 
governess — looking  shocked  at  other  infants 
who  whooped  and  ran.  I  feel  inclined  to 
whoop  and  run,  now;  and  the  Miss  Murga- 
troyds are  quite  prepared  to  look  shocked. 

But  oh,  the  freedom  of  being  nobody,  and 
of  having  nothing  to  think  of  or  do!  And 
everything  I  see  and  hear  gives  me  joy;  a  lark 
rising  from  the  turf,  and  carolling  its  little 
self  up  into  the  blue;  the  great  Atlantic 
breakers,  pounding  upon  the  shore ;  the  fisher- 
folk,  standing  at  the  doors  of  their  picturesque 
thatched   cottages.     All   things    seem    alive, 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     85 

with  an  exuberance  of  living,  to  which  I  have 
long  been  a  stranger. 

Do  you  know  this  coast,  with  its  hi^h 
moorland,  its  splendid  cliffs;  and,  far  below, 
its  sand  coves,  and  ever-moving,  rolling,  surg- 
ing, deep  green  sea?  Wonderful!  Beautiful! 
Infinite! 

My  Inn  is  charming;  primitive,  yet  com- 
fortable. We  have  excellent  coffee,  fried  fish 
in  perfection;  real  nursery  toast,  farm  butter, 
and  home-made  bread.  When  you  supple- 
ment these  with  marmalade  and  mulberry 
jam,  other  tilings  all  cease  to  be  necessities. 

Stray  travellers  come  and  go  in  motors, 
merely  lunching,  or  putting  up  for  one  night; 
but  are    only    four    other    permanent 

gucs:  .  These  all  furnish  me  with  unceasing 
inter  ad    amusement.     The   three    Miss 

Murgatl  -oli,  Jane,    they    are    so    ante- 

diluvian and  quaint!  Three  ancient  sisters, — 
by  name,  Amelia,  Eliza,  and  Susannah.  Their 
villa  at  Putney  rejoices  in  tin-  name  of  "Lawn 
View";  sochara  tic  and  suitable;  because 
ii"  view  reaching  beyond  the  limits  <>f  their 


86         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

*  I  ——->■■■    —  ■    ■    ■       -      ,  ■  !!■      ■■!-  -      ■■«       I        I  I  I  ,    I,    1     - 

own  front  lawn  appears  to  these  dear  ladies 
to  be  worthy  of  regard.  They  never  go 
abroad,  "excepting  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,"  be- 
cause they  "  do  not  like  foreigners."  A  party 
of  quite  charming  Americans  arrived  just 
before  dinner  the  other  day,  in  an  automobile, 
and  kept  us  lively  during  their  flying  visit. 
They  were  cordial  over  the  consomme ;  friendly 
over  the  fish;  and  quite  confidential  by  the 
time  we  reached  the  third  course.  But,  alas, 
these  delightful  cousins  from  the  other 
side,  were  considered  "foreigners"  by  the 
Miss  Murgatroyds,  who  consequently  encased 
themselves  in  the  frigid  armour  of  their  own 
self-conscious  primness;  and  passed  the  mus- 
tard, without  a  smile.  I  felt  constrained,  after- 
wards, to  apologise  for  my  country-women; 
but  the  Americans,  overflowing  with  appreci- 
ative good-nature,  explained  that  they  had 
come  over  expressly  in  order  to  see  old  British, 
relics  of  every  kind.  They  asked  me  whether 
I  did  not  think  the  Miss  Murgatroyds  might 
have  stepped  "right  out  of  Dickens."  I  was 
fairly  nonplussed,    because   I    thought   they 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE      87 

were  going  to  say  "out  of  the  ark" — you  know 
how  one  mentally  finishes  a  sentence  as  soon 
as  it  is  begun? — and  I  simply  dared  not 
confess  that  I  have  not  read  Dickens!  Alas, 
how  ignorant  of  our  own  standard  literature 
we  are  apt  to  feel  when  we  talk  with  Ameri- 
qs,  and  find  it  completely  a  part  of  their 

■  life. 
But  I  must  tell  you  more  about  the  Miss 
Murgatroyds — Amelia,  Eliza,  and  Susannah. 
When  quite  at  peace  among  themselves,  which 
i    not  often,  they  are  Milly,  Lizzie,  and  Susie; 
but  a  little  rift  within  the  lute  is  marked  by 
!   immediate   use   of   their   full    baptismal 
Poor  Susannah  being  the  youngest 
— the  youthful  side  of  sixty — and  inclined  to 
'i  and  giddy,  is  very  n  "Susie." 

Miss  Mur  imelia — is  stern  and  un- 

bending, a  cameo  brooch  the  size 

of  a  tablespoon,  and  lays  down  the  law  in 

tnt     1  wh 

Miss 
Eliza,  t]  rid  u:  1- 

attitui  Mi  i  i..  <iie 


88         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

of  perpetual  apology.  She  addresses  Susie 
as  "my  dear  love,"  excepting  on  occasions 
when  Susie's  behaviour  has  put  her  quite 
outside  the  pale.  Then  she  calls  her,  "my 
dear  Susannah!"  and  sighs.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  Miss  Eliza  suffers  from  a  demonstra- 
tive nature,  which  has  never  had  an  outlet. 

But  Susie  is  the  lively  one.  Susie  would 
be  a  flirt,  if  she  dared,  and  if  any  man  were 
bold  enough  to  flirt  with  her  under  Miss 
Amelia's  eye.  Susie  is  barely  fifty-five,  and 
her  elder  sisters  regard  her  as  a  mere  child, 
and  are  very  ready  with  reproof  and  correction. 
Susie  has  a  pink  and  white  complexion,  a  soft 
fat  little  face,  and  plump  dimpled  hands; 
and  Susie  is  given  to  vanity.  Jim  Airth  held 
open  the  door  of  the  coffee-room  for  her  one 
day,  and  Susie — I  should  say  Susannah — 
has  been  in  a  flutter  ever  since.  Poor  naughty 
Susie!  Miss  Murgatroyd  has  changed  her 
place  at  meals — they  have  a  table  in  the  centre 
of  the  room — and  made  her  sit  with  her  back 
to  Jim  Airth;  who  has  a  round  table,  all  to 
himself,  in  the  window. 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE      89 

Now  I  must  tell  you  about  Jim  Airth,  and  of 
a  curious  coincidence  connected  with  him, 
which  you  must  not  repeat  to  the  doctor,  for 
fear  he  should  move  me  on. 

Let  me  confess  at  once,  that  I  am  extremely 
interested  in  Jim  Airth — and  it  is  sweet  and 
generous  of  me  to  admit  it,  for  Jim  Airth  is 
not  in  the  least  interested  in  me!  He  rarely 
vouchsafes  me  a  word  or  a  glance.  He  is  a 
bear,  and  a  savage ;  but  such  a  fine  good-looking 
bear;  and  such  a  splendid  and  interesting 
savage !  He  is  quite  the  tallest  man  I  ever  saw ; 
with  immense  limbs,  lean  and  big-boned;  yet 
moves  with  the  supple  grace  of  an  Indian. 
He  was  through  that  campaign  last  year,  and 
had  a  terrible  turn  of  sunstroke  and  fever, 
during  which  his  head  was  shaved.  Conse- 
quently his  thick  brown  hair  is  now  at  the 
stage  of  standing  straight  Up  all  over  it  like  a 
bottle-brush.  I  know  Susie  longs  tc  smooth 
it  down;  but  that  would  be  a  task  bcyor.d 
Susie's  utmost  efforts.  His  brows  are  very 
stern  and  level;  and  his  eyes,  deep-set  beneath 
them,  of  that  gentian  blue  which  •     kes  one 


90  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

think  of  Alpine  heights.  They  can  flash  and 
gleam,  on  occasions,  and  sometimes  look  al- 
most purple.  He  wears  a  heavy  brown 
moustache,  and  his  jaw  and  chin  are  terrifying 
in  their  masterful  strength.  Yet  he  smokes  an 
old  briar  pipe;  whistles  like  a  blackbird;  and 
derives  immense  amusement  from  playing  up 
to  naughty  Susie's  coyness,  when  the  cameo 
brooch  is  turned  another  way.  I  have  seen 
his  eyes  twinkle  with  fun  when  Miss  Susannah 
has  purposely  let  fall  her  handkerchief,  and  he 
has  reached  out  a  long  arm,  picked  it  up,  and 
restored  it.  Whereupon  Susie  has  hastened 
out,  in  the  wake  of  her  sisters,  in  a  blushing 
flutter;  Miss  Eliza  turning  to  whisper:  "Oh, 
my  dear  love!  Oh  Susannah!"  I  try,  when 
these  things  happen,  to  catch  Jim  Airth's 
merry  eye,  and  share  the  humour  of  the 
situation ;  but  he  stolidly  sees  the  wall  through 
me  on  all  occasions,  and  would  tread  heavily 
on  my  poor  handkerchief ,  if  I  took  to  dropping 
it.  Miss  Murgatroyd  tells  me  that  he  is  a 
confirmed  hater  of  feminine  beauty;  upon 
which  poor  Miss  Susannah  takes  a  surrepti- 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     91 

tious  prink  into  the  gold-framed  mirror  over 
the  reception-room  mantelpiece,  and  says, 
plaintively:  "Oh,  do  not  say  that,  Amelia!" 
But  Amelia  does  say  "that";  and  a  good  deal 
more ! 

When  first  I  saw  Jim  Airth,  I  thought  him 
a  cross  between  a  cowboy  and  a  guardsman; 
and  I  think  so  still.  But  what  do  you 
suppose  he  turns  out  to  be,  beside?  An 
author!  And,  stranger  still,  he  is  writing 
an  important  book  called  Modem  Warfare; 
its  ods  and  Requirements,  in  which  he  is 

explaining  and  working  out  many  of  Michael's 
ideas  and  experiments.  He  was  right  through 
that  border  war,  and  took  part  in  the  assault 
o.  Targai.  He  must  have  known  Michael, 
intimately. 

1    this    information    I    have    from    Miss 

Murgatroyd.     I    son  es    sit    with    them 

in    the  -lion-room    after   dinner,   who 

they  wind   wool   and   knit — endless  winding; 

il     kin*  tin  .1     five     minutes      lo 

!,   Mi  "  Ni  W,  i  iy  dear 

Eliza.     Now,  Su  ."  which  is  the  . 


92  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

for  bestowing  all  their  goods  and  chattels  into 
black  satin  work-bags.  Then,  at  ten  o'clock 
precisely,  Miss  Murgatroyd  rises,  and  they 
procession  up  to  bed — ah,  no!  I  beg  their 
pardons.  The  Miss  Murgatroyds  never  "go 
to  bed."     They  all  "retire  to  rest." 

Jim  Airth  and  his  doings  form  a  favourite 
topic  of  conversation.  They  speak  of  him  as 
"Mr.  Airth,"  which  sounds  so  funny.  He  is 
not  the  sort  of  person  one  ever  could  call 
"  Mister."  To  me,  he  has  been  "Jim  Airth, " 
ever  since  I  saw  his  name,  in  small  neat 
writing,  in  the  visitors'  book.  I  had  to  put 
mine  just  beneath  it,  and  of  course  I  wrote 
"Mrs.  O'Mara" ;  then,  as  an  address  seemed  ex- 
pected, added:  "The  Lodge,  Shenstone."  Just 
after  I  had  written  this,  Jim  Airth  came  into 
the  hall,  and  stood  quite  still  studying  it. 
I  saw  him,  from  half-way  up  the  stairs.  At 
first  I  thought  he  was  marvelling  at  my 
shocking  handwriting;  but  now  I  believe  the 
name  "Shenstone"  caught  his  eye.  No 
doubt  he  knew  it  to  be  Michael's  family- 
seat. 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     93 


Do  you  know,  it  was  so  strange,  the  other 
night,  Miss  Murgatroyd  held  forth  in  the 
reception-room  about  Michael's  death.  She 
explained  that  he  was  "the  first  to  dash  into 
the  breach,"  and  "fell  with  his  face  to  the  foe." 
She  also  added  that  she  used  to  know  "poor 
dear  Lady  Ingleby,"  intimately.  This  was 
interesting,  and  seemed  worthy  of  further 
inquiry.  It  turned  out  that  she  is  a  distant 
cousin  of  a  weird  old  person  who  used  to  call 

ery  year  on  mamma,  for  a  subscription  to 
some  society  for  promoting  thrift  among  the 
inhabitants  of  the  South  Sea  Islands.  Dear 
mamma  used  annually  to  jump  upon  this 
courageous  old  party  and  flatten  her  out;  and 
;  to  the  process  was,  to  us,  a  fearful 

■;  but  annually  she  returned  to  the  charge. 

On  one  of  these  occ  >,  just  before  my 

,  ■'■"■".    troyd  accompanied  her. 

knowl<  '    \  of  "poor  dear 

I.  idy  I:  ."    A]  o  .  he  ha  i  a  friend  who, 

qui  aw   I.  I  '1  riving    in 

the  I  poor  thing,  she  had  sadly  . 

of!  in  ."     I  felt  inclined  to  prink  in  I 


94  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

golden  mirror,  after  the  manner  of  Susie,  and 
exclaim:  "Oh,  do  not  say  that,  Amelia!" 

Is  n't  it  queer  the  way  in  which  such  people 
as  these  worthy  ladies,  yearn  to  be  able  to  say 
they  know  us;  for  really,  when  all  is  said  and 
done,  we  are  not  very  much  worth  knowing? 
I  would  rather  know  a  cosmopolitan  cowboy, 
such  as  Jim  Airth,  than  half  the  titled  folk  on 
my  visiting-list. 

But  really,  Jane,  I  must  not  mention  him 
again,  or  you  will  think  I  am  infected  with 
Susie's  nutter.  Not  so,  my  dear!  He  has 
shown  me  no  little  courtesies;  given  few  signs 
of  being  conscious  of  my  presence;  barely 
returned  my  morning  greeting,  though  my 
lonely  table  is  just  opposite  his,  in  the  large 
bay-window. 

But  in  this  new  phase  of  life,  everything 
seems  of  absorbing  interest,  and  the  individ- 
uality of  the  few  people  I  see,  takes  on  an 
exaggerated  importance.  (Really  that  sen- 
tence might  almost  be  Sir  Deryck's!)  Also, 
I  really  believe  Jim  Airth's  peculiar  fascination 
consists  in  the  fact  that  I  am  conscious  of  his 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     95 


disapproval.  If  he  thinks  of  me  at  all,  it  is 
not  with  admiration,  nor  even  with  liking. 
And  this  is  a  novel  experience ;  for  I  have  been 
spoilt  by  perpetual  approval,  and  satiated  by 
senseless  and  unmerited  adulation. 

Oh   Jane!     As   I   walk   along   these   cliffs, 

and    hear    the    Atlantic    breakers    pounding 

against  their  base,  far  down  below ;  as  I  watch 

the  sea-gulls  circling  around  on  their  strong 

white  wings;  as  I  realise  the  strength,   the 

force,  the  liberty,  in  nature;  the  growth  and 

progress  which  accompanies  life;  I  feel  I  have 

ver   really   lived.     Nothing   has   ever   felt 

sit  <  it  her  beneath  me,  or  around  me,  or 

ainst  me.     Had  I  once  been  mastered,  and 

made  to  do  as  another  willed,   I 

should  have  felt  love  was  a  reality,  and  life 

would    have    become    worth    living.     But    I 

just  dawdled  through  the  years,  doing 

I  pi        ';  making  mistakes,  and 

n<  oubling  to  set  me  right;  failing,  and 

pointed  that  I  had  not  su 

I  r  key  to  lif< 

.  whi(     '  I  ■> 


96  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

my  hands.  What  it  is,  I  know  not.  But  if 
I  ever  learn,  it  will  be  from  just  such  a  man  as 
Jim  Airth.  I  have  never  really  talked  with 
him,  yet  I  am  so  conscious  of  his  strength  and 
virility,  that  he  stands  to  me,  in  the  abstract, 
for  all  that  is  strongest  in  manhood,  and 
most  vital  in  life. 

Much  of  the  benefit  of  my  time  here,  quite 
unconsciously  to  himself,  comes  to  me  from 
him.  When  he  walks  into  the  house,  whistling 
like  a  blackbird;  when  he  hangs  up  his  cap 
on  an  antler  a  foot  or  two  higher  than  other, 
people  could  reach;  when  he  ploughs  un- 
hesitatingly through  his  meals,  with  a  book  or 
a  paper  stuck  up  in  front  of  him;  when  he 
dumps  his  big  boots  out  into  the  passage, 
long  after  the  quiet  house  has  hushed  into 
repose,  and  I  smile,  in  the  darkness,  at  the 
thought  of  how  the  sound  will  have  annoyed 
Miss  Murgatroyd,  startled  Miss  Eliza,  and 
made  naughty  Miss  Susannah's  heart  flutter; 
— when  all  these  things  happen  every  day, 
I  am  conscious  that  a  clearer  understanding 
of  the  past,  a  new  strength  for  the  future,  and 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     97 

a  fresh  outlook  on  life,  come  to  me,  simply 
from  the  fact  that  he  is  himself,  and  that  he  is 
here.  Jim  Airth  may  not  be  a  saint ;  but  he  is 
a  man! 

Dear  Jane,  I  should  scarcely  venture  to  send 
you  this  epistle,  were  it  not  for  all  the  ad- 
jectives— "wholesome,"  "helpful,"  "under- 
standing," etc.,  which  so  rightly  apply  to  you. 
You  will  not  misunderstand.  Of  that  I  have 
no  fear.  But  do  not  tell  the  doctor  more  than 
that  I  am  very  well,  in  excellent  spirits,  and 
happier  than   I   have  ever  been  in  my  life. 

Tell  Garth  I  loved  his  last  song.  How  often 
I  sing  to  myself,  as  I  walk  in  the  sea  breeze 
and  sunshine,  the  hairbells  waving  round  my 

t: 

"On  God's  fair  earth,  'mid  blossoms  blue, 
Fresh  hope  must  ever  spring." 

I  trust  I  sing  it  in  tune;  but  I  know  I  have 
not  much  ear. 

And  how  is  your  little  Geoffrey?  Has  he 
the  beautiful  shining  eyes,  we  all  i  aber? 
I  have  often  laugh-         er  your  account  of  liis 


98  THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

sojourn  at  Overdene,  and  of  how  our  dear 
naughty  old  duchess  stirred  him  up  to  rebel 
against  his  nurse.  You  must  have  had  your 
hands  full  when  you  and  Garth  returned  from 
America.  Oh,  Jane,  how  different  my  life 
would  have  been  if  I  had  had  a  little  son! 
Ah,  well! 

"  There  is  no  room  for  sad  despair, 
When  heaven's  love  is  everywhere." 

Tell  Garth,  I  love  it;  but  I  wish  he  wrote 
simpler  accompaniments.  That  one  beats 
me! 

Yours,  dear  Jane, 

Gratefully  and  affectionately, 
Myra  Ingleby. 

Letter  from  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Dalmain 
to  Lady  Ingleby. 

Castle  Gleneesh,  N.  B. 
My  dear  Myra, 

No,  I  have  not  the  smallest  objection  to 

representing  rice  pudding,   or  anything  else 

plain  and  wholesome,  providing  I  agree  with 

you,  and  suffice  for  the  need  of  the  moment 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     99 

I  am  indeed  glad  to  have  so  good  a  report. 
It  proves  Deryck  right  in  his  diagnosis  and 
prescription.  Keep  to  the  latter  faithfully, 
in  every  detail. 

I  am  much  interested  in  your  account  of 
your  fellow-guests  at  the  Moorhead  Inn.     No, 
I  do  not  misunderstand  your  letter;  nor  do 
I  credit  you  with  any  foolish  sentimentality, 
or  Susie-like  flutterings.     Jim  Airth  stands  to 
i  for  an  abstract  thing — uncompromising 
manhood,  in  its  strength  and  assurance;  very 
attractive  after  the  loneliness  and  sense  of 
ing  cut  adrift,  which  have  been  your  portion 
lately.     Only,   remember — where  living  men 
and  women  are  concerned,  the  safely  abstract 
apt    suddenly    to    become    the    perilously 
oal;  and  your  future  happiness  may  be 
ly    involved,    before    you    realise    the 
danger.     I  confess,   I  fail  to  understand  ti 
m  idano  U.     He  sounds  the  sort 

of  fellow  who  would  be  friendly  and  pleasant 
toward  all  women,  and  passionately  loyal 

a,  with  yotu 
—a  tact,  my  dear,  i 


100        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


vations  in  the  Park,  of  Miss  Amelia's  crony! — 
may  remind  him  of  some  long-closed  page  of 
past  history,  and  he  may  shrink  from  the  pain 
of  a  consequent  turning  of  memory's  leaves. 
No  doubt  Miss  Susannah  recalls  some  nice 
old  maiden-aunt,  and  he  can  afford  to  respond 
to  her  blandishments. 

What  you  say  of  the  way  in  which  Americans 
know  our  standard  authors,  reminds  me  of  a 
fellow-passenger  on  board  the  Baltic,  on  our 
outward  voyage — a  charming  woman,  from 
Hartford,  Connecticut,  who  sat  beside  us  at 
meals.  She  had  been  spending  five  months 
in  Europe,  travelling  incessantly,  and  finished 
up  with  London — her  first  visit  to  our  capital 
— expecting  to  be  altogether  too  tired  to  enjoy 
it;  but  found  it  a  place  of  such  abounding 
interest  and  delight,  that  lif.j  went  on  with 
fresh  zest,  and  fatigue  was  forgotten.  "Every 
street,"  she  explained,  "is  so  familiar.  We 
have  never  seen  them  before,  and  yet  they 
are  more  familiar  than  the  streets  of  our  native 
cities.  It  is  the  London  of  Dickens  and  of 
Thackeray.     We  know  it  all.     We  recognise 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     101 

the  streets  as  we  come  to  them.  The  places 
are  homelike  to  us.  IVe  have  known  them  all 
our  lives."  I  enjoyed  this  tribute  to  our 
English  literature.  But  I  wonder,  my  dear 
Myra,  how  many  streets,  east  of  Temple 
Bar,  in  our  dear  old  London,  are  "  homelike  " 
to  you! 

Garth  insists  upon  sending  you  at  once  a 
selection  of  his  favourites  from  among  the 
works  of  Dickens.  So  expect  a  bulky  package 
before  long.  You  might  read  them  aloud 
to  the  Miss  Murgatroyds,  while  they  knit 
and  wind  wool. 

Garth  thoroughly  enjoyed  our  trip  to 
America.  You  know  why  we  went?  Since 
he  lost  his  sight,  all  sounds  mean  so  much  to 
him.     He  is  so  boyishly  eager  to  hear  all  the 

1  in  the  world.     Any  possibility 

of    a    new    sound-experience    fills    him    with 

astic   expectation,    and    away   we   go! 

He  set  I         eart  upon  hearing  the  thunderous 

Niagara,  so  off  we  went,  by  the  White 

IT     Line.     I  lis    enjoyment    was    complete, 
when  at  last  he  stood  close  to  the  Hors* 


102        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Fall,  on  the  Canadian  side,  with  his  hand  on 
the  rail  at  the  place  where  the  spray  showers 
over  you,  and  the  great  rushing  boom  seems 
all  around.  And  as  we  stood  there  together,  a 
little  bird  on  a  twig  beside  us,  began  to  sing! — 
Garth  is  putting  it  all  into  a  symphony. 

How  true  is  what  you  say  of  the  genial 
friendliness  of  Americans!  I  was  thinking  it 
over,  on  our  homeward  voyage.  It  seems  to 
me,  that,  as  a  rule,  they  are  so  far  less  self- 
conscious  than  we.  Their  minds  are  fully  at 
liberty  to  go  out  at  once,  in  keenest  apprecia- 
tion and  interest,  to  meet  a  new  acquaintance. 
Our  senseless  British  greeting:  "How  do  you 
do?  " — that  everlasting  question,  which  neither 
expects  nor  awaits  an  answer,  co,n  only  lead 
to  trite  remarks  about  the  weather;  whereas 
America's  "I  am  happy  to  meet  you,  Mrs. 
Dalmain,"  or  "I  am  pleased  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  Lady  Ingleby,"  is  an  open  door, 
through  which  we  pass  at  once  to  fuller 
friendliness.  Too  often,  in  the  moment  of 
introduction,  the  reserved  British  nature  turns 
in    upon    itself,    sensitively    debating    what 


MRS.  O'MARA'S  CORRESPONDENCE     103 

impression  it  is  making;  nervously  afraid  of 
being  too  expansive;  fearful  of  giving  itself 
away.  But,  as  I  said,  the  American  mind 
comes  forth  to  meet  us  with  prompt  interest 
and  appreciative  expectation;  and  we  make 
more  friends,  in  that  land  of  ready  sympathies, 
in  half  an  hour,  than  we  do  in  half  a  year  of  our 
own  stiff  social  functions.  Perhaps  you  will 
put  me  d  isscd  in  my  opinion.     Wei1, 

they  w<  -ndrous  good  to  Garth  and  me; 

and  v  pend  so  greatly  upon  people  saying 
exactly  the  right  thing  at  the  right  moment. 
When  friendly  looks  cannot  be  seen,  tactful 
W<  irds  become  more  than  ever  a  necessity. 

Yes,  little  Geoff's  eyes  arc  bright  and 
shining,  and  the  true  golden  brown.  In 
many  other  ways  he  his  father. 

his  love,  and  promises  you  a 
iniment   to    the    "Blackbird's 

can  <      '.   \>   played  with  <  i 

: 

this  envelope 

I  ■    remind     I  lime 

when   Id  I  my  own  identity  and  osi 


104        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

another  woman's  name.     I  only  wish    your 
experiment  might  end  as  happily  as  mine. 

Ah,  Myra  dearest,  there  is  a  Best  for  every 
life !  Sometimes  we  can  only  reach  it  by  a  rocky 
path  or  along  a  thorny  way;  and  those  who 
fear  the  pain,  come  to  it  not  at  all.  But  such 
of  us  as  have  attained,  can  testify  that  it  is 
worth  while.  From  all  you  have  told  me 
lately,  I  gather  the  Best  has  not  yet  come  your 
way.  Keep  on  expecting.  Do  not  be  content 
with  less. 

We  certainly  must  not  let  Deryck  know 
that  Jim  Airth — what  a  nice  name — was  at 
Targai.     He  would  move  you  on,  promptly. 

Report  again  next  week;  and  do  abide,  if 
necessary,  beneath  the  safe  chaperonage  of 
the  cameo  brooch. 

Yours,  in  all  fidelity, 

Jane  Dalmain. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  HORSESHOE  COVE 

T  ADY  INGLEBY  sat  in  the  honeysuckle 
arbour,  pouring  her  tea  from  a  little 
brown  earthenware  teapot,  and  spreading 
substantial  slices  of  home-made  bread  with  the 
creamiest  of  farm  butter,  when  the  aged 
postman  hobbled  up  to  the  garden  gate  of  the 
Moorhead  Inn,  with  a  letter  for  Mrs.  O'Mara. 

For  a  moment  she  could  scarcely  bring 
herself  to  open  an  envelope  bearing  another 
name  than  her  own.  Then,  smiling  at  her 
momentary  hesitation,  she  tore  it  open  with 
tb'  i  delight  of  one,  who,  accustomed  to 

a  letters  a  day,   has  passed  a  week 

without  :  ing  any. 

She  read  Mrs.  Dalmain's  Letter  through 
rapidly;  and  once  she  laughed  aloud;  and  once 
a  sudden  colour  flamed  into  her  cheeks. 

105 


106        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


Then  she  laid  it  down,  and  helped  herself 
to  honey — real  heather-honey,  golden  in  the 
comb. 

She  took  up  her  letter  again,  and  read  it 
carefully,  weighing  each  word. 

Then:— "Good  old  Jane!"  she  said;  "that 
is  rather  neatly  put:  the  'safely  abstract' 
becoming  the  'perilously  personal.'  She  has 
acquired  the  knack  of  terse  and  forceful 
phraseology  from  her  long  friendship  with  the 
doctor.  I  can  do  it  myself,  when  I  try;  only, 
my  Sir  Derycky  sentences  are  apt  merely  to 
sound  well,  and  mean  nothing  at  all.  And 
— after  all — does  this  of  Jane's  mean  any- 
thing worthy  of  consideration?  Could  six 
foot  five  of  abstraction — eating  its  breakfast 
in  complete  unconsciousness  of  one's  presence, 
returning  one's  timid  'good-morning'  with  per- 
functory politeness,  and  relegating  one,  while 
still  debating  the  possibility  of  venturing  a 
remark  on  the  weather,  to  obvious  oblivion — 
ever  become  perilously  personal?" 

Lady  Ingleby  laughed  again,  returned  the 
letter  to  its  envelope,  and  proceeded  to  cut 


IN  HORSESHOE  COVE  107 

herself  a  slice  of  home-made  currant  cake. 
As  she  finished  it,  with  a  final  cup  of  tea,  she 
thought  with  amusement  of  the  difference 
between  this  substantial  meal  in  the  honey- 
suckle arbour  of  the  old  inn  garden,  and  the 
fashionable  teas  then  going  on  in  crowded 
drawing-rooms  in  town,  where  people  hurried 
in,  took  a  tiny  roll  of  thin  bread-and-butter, 
and  a  sip  at  luke-warm  tea,  which  had  stood 
sufficiently  long  to  leave  an  abiding  taste  of 
tannin;  heard  or  imparted  a  few  more  or  less 
detrimental  facts  concerning  mutual  friends; 
then  hurried  on  elsewhere,  to  a  cucumber 
sandwich,  colder  tea,  which  had  stood  even 
longer,  and  a  fresh  instalment  of  gossip. 

"Oh,  why  do  we  do  it?"  mused  Lady 
Ingleby.  Then,  taking  up  her  scarlet  parasol, 
she  crossed  the  little  lawn,  and  stood  at  the 
garden  .  in  the  afternoon  sunlight,  de- 

bating in  which  din  should  go. 

ually  her  walks  took  her  along  the  top  of 

the  cliffs,  where  the  larl.  £ng  from  the 

short  turf   and    clumps   of  waving   harebells, 

up  into  the  sky.     She  k>\ 


108        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

being  high  above  the  sea,  and  hearing  the 
distant  thunder  of  the  breakers  on  the  rocks 
below. 

But  to-day  the  steep  little  street,  down 
through  the  fishing  village,  to  the  cove,  looked 
inviting.  The  tide  was  out,  and  the  sands 
gleamed  golden. 

Also,  from  her  seat  in  the  arbour,  she  had 
seen  Jim  Airth's  tall  figure  go  swinging  along 
the  cliff  edge,  silhouetted  against  the  clear 
blue  of  the  sky.  And  one  sentence  in  the 
letter  she  had  just  received,  made  this  into  a 
factor  which  turned  her  feet  toward  the  shore. 

The  friendly  Cornish  folk,  sitting  on  their 
doorsteps  in  the  sunshine,  smiled  at  the  lovely 
woman  in  white  serge,  who  passed  down  their 
village  street,  so  tall  and  graceful,  beneath 
the  shade  of  her  scarlet  parasol.  An  item  in 
the  doctor's  prescription  had  been  the  dis- 
carding of  widow's  weeds,  and  it  had  seemed 
quite  natural  to  Myra  to  come  down  to  her 
first  Cornish  breakfast  in  a  cream  serge  gown. 

Arrived  at  the  shore,  she  turned  in  the 
direction  she  usually  took    when   up  above, 


IN  HORSESHOE  COVE  109 


and  walked  quickly  along  the  firm  smooth 
sand;  pausing  occasionally  to  pick  up  a 
beautifully  marked  stone,  or  to  examine  a 
brilliant  sea-anemone  or  gleaming  jelly-fish, 
left  stranded  by  the  tide. 

Presently  she  reached  a  place  where  the  cliff 
jutted  out  toward  the  sea;  and,  climbing  over 
slippery  rocks,  studded  with  shining  pools 
in  which  crimson  seaweed  waved,  crabs 
scudded  sideways  from  her  passing  shadow, 
and  darting  shrimps  flicked  across  and  buried 
themselves  hastily  in  the  sand,  Myra  found 
herself  in  a  most  fascinating  cove.  The  line 
of  cliff  here  made  a  horseshoe,  not  quite  half  a 
mile  in  length.  The  little  bay,  within  this 
curve,  was  a  place  of  almost  fairy-like  beauty; 
the  sand  a  soft  glistening  white,  decked  with 
delicate  crimson  seaweed.  The  cliffs,  towering 
up  above,  ga^t  'come  shadow  to  the  shore; 

sun  behind  them   still  gleamed   and 
sparkled  on  the  distant  sea. 

Myra  walked  to  the  centre  of  the  horseshoe; 
then,  picking  up  a  piece  of  driftwood,  scooped 
out  a  comi  rl   ble  hollow  in  the  sand,  about  a 


1 1 0        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

dozen  yards  from  the  foot  of  the  cliff ;  stuck  her 
open  parasol  up  behind  it,  to  shield  herself  from 
the  observation,  from  above,  of  any  chance 
passer-by;  and,  settling  comfortably  into  the 
soft  hollow,  lay  back,  watching,  through 
half-closed  lids,  the  fleeting  shadows,  the  blue 
sky,  the  gently  moving  sea.  Little  white 
clouds  blushed  rosy  red.  An  opal  tint  gleamed 
on  the  water.  The  moving  ripple  seemed  too 
far  away  to  break  the  restful  silence. 

Lady  Ingleby's  eyelids  drooped  lower  and 
lower. 

"Yes,  my  dear  Jane,"  she  murmured, 
dreamily  watching  a  snow-white  sail,  as  it 
rounded  the  point,  curtseyed,  and  vanished 
from  view;  "undoubtedly  a — a  well-expressed 
sentence;  but  far  from — from — being  fact. 
The  safely  abstract  could  hardly  require — a — 
a — a  cameo " 

The  long  walk,  the  sea  breeze,  the  distant 
lapping  of  the  water — all  these  combined  had 
done  their  soothing  work. 

Lady  Ingleby  slept  peacefully  in  Horseshoe 
Cove;  and  the  rising  tide  crept  in. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JIM  AIRTH  TO  THE  RESCUE 

A  N  hour  later,  a  man  swung  along  the  path 
**  at  the  summit  of  the  cliffs,  whistling  like 
a  blackbird. 

The  sun  was  setting;  and,  as  he  walked,  he 
revelled  in  the  gold  and  crimson  of  the  sky; 
in  the  opal  tints  upon  the  heaving  sea. 

The  wind  had  risen  as  the  sun  set,  and 
breakers  were  beginning  to  pound  along  the 
shore. 

Suddenly  something  caught  his  eye,  far 
down  1  n 

'"  By  Jove!"  he  said.  "A  scarlet  poppy  on 
the  sands!" 

He  walked  on,  until  his  rapid  stride  brought 

him  to  the  centre  of  the  cliff  above  Horseshoe 

Co- 
in 


112        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Then—  "Good  Lord!"  said  Jim  Airth, 
and  stood  still. 

He  had  caught  sight  of  Lady  Ingleby's 
white  skirt  reposing  on  the  sand,  beyond  the 
scarlet  parasol. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Jim  Airth. 

Then  he  scanned  the  horizon.  Not  a  boat 
to  be  seen. 

His  quick  eye  travelled  along  the  cliff,  the 
way  he  had  come.     Not  a  living  thing  in  sight. 

On  to  the  fishing  village.  Faint  threads  of 
ascending  vapour  indicated  chimneys.  "Two 
miles  at  least, ' '  muttered  Jim  Airth.  ' '  I  could 
not  run  it  and  get  back  with  a  boat,  under 
three  quarters  of  an  hour." 

Then  he  looked  down  into  the  cove. 

"Both  ends  cut  off.  The  water  will  reach 
her  feet  in  ten  minutes;  will  sweep  the  base 
of  the  cliff,  in  twenty." 

Exactly  beneath  the  spot  where  he  stood, 
more  than  half  way  down,  was  a  ledge  about 
six  feet  long  by  four  feet  wide. 

Letting  himself  over  the  edge,  holding  to 
tufts  of  grass,   tiny   shrubs,   jutting   stones, 


JIM  AIRTH  TO  THE  RESCUE  113 

cracks  in  the  surface  of  the  sandstone,  he 
managed  to  reach  this  narrow  ledge,  dropping 
the  last  ten  feet,  and  landing  on  it  by  an  almost 
superhuman  effort  of  balance. 

One  moment  he  paused;  carefully  took  its 
measure;  then,  leaning  over,  looked  down. 
Sixty  feet  remained,  a  precipitous  slope,  with 
nothing  to  which  foot  could  hold,  or  hand 
could  cling. 

Jim  Airth  buttoned  his  Norfolk  jacket,  and 
tightened  his  belt.  Then  slipping,  feet  fore- 
most off  the  ledge,  he  glissaded  down  on  his 
back,  bending  his  knees  at  the  exact  moment 
When  his  feet  thudded  heavily  on  to  the  sand. 

For  a  moment  the  shock  stunned  him. 
Then  he  got  up  and  looked  around. 

He  stood,  within  ten  yards  of  the  scarlet 
parasol,  on  the  small  strip  of  sand  still  left 
uncovered  by  the  rapidly  advancing  sweep  of 
the  rising  tide. 


CHAPTER  X 

"yeo  ho,  we  go!" 

"  A  CAMEO  chaperonage,"  murmured  Lady 
^^     Ingleby,  and  suddenly  opened  her  eyes. 

Sky  and  sea  were  still  there,  but  between 
them,  closer  than  sea  or  sky,  looking  down 
upon  her  with  a  tense  light  in  his  blue  eyes, 
stood  Jim  Airth. 

"Why,  I  have  been  asleep!"  said  Lady 
Ingleby. 

"You  have,"  said  Jim  Airth;  "and  mean- 
while the  sun  has  set,  and — the  tide  has  come 
up.     Allow  me  to  assist  you  to  rise." 

Lady  Ingleby  put  her  hand  into  his,  and 

he  helped  her  to  her  feet.     She  stood  beside 

him  gazing,  with  wide  startled  eyes,  at  the 

expanse  of  sea,  the  rushing  waves,  the  tiny 

strip  of  sand. 

114 


"  YEO  HO,  WE  GO!"  115 

-  "The   tide   seems  very  high,"    said    Lady 
Ingleby. 

"Very  high,"  agreed  Jim  Airth.  He  stood 
close  beside  her,  but  his  eyes  still  eagerly 
scanned  the  water.  If  by  any  chance  a  boat 
came  round  the  point  there  would  still  be 
time  to  hail  it. 

"  We  seem  to  be  cut  off,"  said  Lady  Ingleby. 

"We  are  cut  off,"  replied  Jim  Airth,  lacon- 
ically. 

"Then  I  suppose  we  must  have  a  boat," 
I    Lady   Ingleby. 

!lent  suggestion,"  replied  Jim 
Airth,  drily,  "if  a  boat  were  to  be  had.  But, 
unfortu:  are   two  from   the 

haml<  d  this  is  not  a  time  when  boats 

pass  iii  out;  nor  would  they  come  this 

When  I  saw  you,  from  I  >p  of  the 

clitT,  I  <    Iculated  the  chances  as  to  whether  I 
he  1  and  1      back  here  in 

tii.  ,       ild  hn\  with 

a   '  would   h:t .  y    wet." 

finish  \irth,  ly. 

I  !••  '.  to  his 


1 1 6        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


shoulder.  It  was  pale  and  serious,  but  showed 
no  sign  of  fear. 

He  glanced  at  the  point  of  clifl  beyond. 
Twenty  feet  above  its  rocky  base  the  breakers 
were  dashing;  but  round  that  point  would  be 
safety. 

"Can  you  swim? "  asked  Jim  Airth,  eagerly. 

Myra's  calm  grey  eyes  met  his,  steadily.  A 
gleam  of  amusement  dawned  in  them. 

"If  you  put  your  hand  under  my  chin, 
and  count  'one — two!  one — two!'  very  loud 
and  quickly,  I  can  swim  nearly  ten  yards," 
she  said. 

Jim  Airth  laughed.  His  eyes  met  hers,  in 
sudden  comprehending  comradeship.  "By 
Jove,  you're  plucky!"  they  seemed  to  say. 
But  what  he  really  said  was:  "Then  swimming 

is  no  go." 

"No  go,  for  me,"  said  Myra,  earnestly, 
"nor  for  you,  weighted  by  me.  We  should 
never  get  round  that  eddying  whirlpool.  It 
would  merely  mean  that  we  should  both  be 
drowned.  But  you  can  easily  do  it  alone. 
Oh,   go  at  once!     Go  quickly!     And — don't 


'*  YEO  HO,  WE  GO!"  117 

look  back.  I  shall  be  all  right.  I  shall  just 
sit  down  against  the  cliff,  and  wait.  I  have 
always  been  fond  of  the  sea." 

Jim  Airth  looked  at  her  again.  And,  this 
time,  open  admiration  shone  in  his  keen  eyes. 

"Ah,  brave!"  he  said.  "A  mother  of 
soldiers!  Such  women  make  of  us  a  fighting 
race." 

Myra  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve.  "My 
friend,"  she  said,  "it  was  never  given  me  to 
be  a  mother.  But  I  am  a  soldier's  daughter, 
and  a  soldier's  widow;  and — I  am  not  afraid 
to  die.  Oh,  I  do  beg  of  you — give  me  one 
handclasp  and  go!" 

Jim  Airth  took  the  hand  held  out,  but  he 
l  it  firmly  in  his  own. 

"You  shall  not  die,"  he  said,  between  his 

"Do  you  suppose  I  would  leave  any 

?     And  you — you,  of  all 

•    ."  he  rep    ted,  doggedly; 

"you  shall  not  die.     Do  you  think  I  could  go; 

and  leave     "  '  e  br         5  abrupl 

Myra  smiled.  His  hand  was  very  strong, 
and  I  ly  restful.     And  had 


!  1 8       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

he  not  said:  "  You,  of  all  women?"  But, 
even  in  what  seemed  likely  to  be  her  last 
moments,  Lady  Ingleby's  unfailing  instinct 
was  to  be  tactful. 

"I  am  sure  you  would  leave  no  woman 
in  danger,"  she  said;  "and  some,  alas!  might 
have  been  easier  to  save  than  I.  Plump  little 
Miss  Susie  would  have  floated." 

Jim  Airth's  big  laugh  rang  out.  "And 
Miss  Murgatroyd  could  have  sailed  away  in 
her  cameo,"  he  said. 

Then,  as  if  that  laugh  had  broken  the  spell 
which  held  him  inactive:  "Come,"  he  cried, 
and  drew  her  to  the  foot  of  the  cliff;  "we  have 
not  a  moment  to  lose!  Look!  Do  you  see 
the  way  I  came  down?  See  that  long  slide 
in  the  sand?  I  tobogganed  down  there  on 
my  back.  Pretty  steep,  and  nothing  to  hold 
to,  I  admit;  but  not  so  very  far  up,  after  all. 
And,  where  my  slide  begins,  is  a  blessed  ledge 
four  foot  by  six."  He  pulled  out  a  huge 
clasp-knife,  opened  the  largest  blade,  and 
commenced  hacking  steps  in  the  lace  of  the 
cliff.     "  We  must  climb,"  said  Jim  Airth. 


"  YEO  HO,  WE  CO!"  119 

"I  have  never  climbed,"  whispered  Myra's 
voice  behind  him. 

"You  must  climb  to-day,"  said  Jim  Airth. 

"  I  could  never  even  climb  trees,"  whispered 
Myra. 

"You  must  climb  a  cliff  to-night.  It  is 
our  only  chance." 

He  hacked  on,  rapidly. 

Suddenly  he  paused.  "Show  me  your 
re  ich,"  he  said.  "Mine  would  not  do.  Put 
your  left  hand  there;  so.  Now  stretch  up 
with  your  right ;  as  high  as  you  can,  easily.  .  .  . 
Ah!    three    foot    six,    or    thereabouts.     Now 

ur  left  foot  close  to  the  bottom.  Step  up 
with  your  right,  as  high  as  you  can  comfort  - 
ably.  .  .  .  Two  foot,  nine.  Good!  One 
step,  more  or  less,  might  make  all  the  dif- 
fer by-and-by.     Now    listen,    while    I 

rk.      What  ;:  -send   for  us  that  tin 

stratum  i 
We  should  have  been  done  for,  had 

marl  '       You  mu 
1  could  sen 
you  alm< 


!20       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


ledge — just  out  of  reach  of  the  water,  leaving 
you  there,  while  I  go  on  up,  and  finish. 
Then  I  could  return  for  you.  You  could 
climb  in  front,  I  helping  from  below.  You 
would  feel  safer.  Or — you  must  follow  me 
up  now,  step  by  step,  as  I  cut  them." 

"I  could  not  wait  on  a  ledge  alone,"  said 
Myra.     "I  will  follow  you,  step  by  step." 

"Good,"  said  Jim  Airth;  "it  will  save  time. 
I  am  afraid  you  must  take  off  your  shoes  and 
stockings.  Nothing  will  do  for  this  work, 
but  naked  feet.  We  shall  need  to  stick  our 
toes  into  the  sand,  and  make  them  cling  on 
like  fingers." 

He  pulled  off  his  own  boots  and  stockings; 
then  drew  the  belt  from  his  Norfolk  jacket, 
and  fastened  it  firmly  round  his  left  ankle  in 
such  a  way  that  a  long  end  would  hang  down 
behind  him  as  he  mounted. 

"See  that?"  he  said.  "When  you  are  in 
the  niches  below  me,  it  will  hang  close  to  your 
hands.  If  you  are  slipping,  and  feel  you  must 
clutch  at  something,  catch  hold  of  that.  Only, 
if  possible,  shout  first,  and  I  will  stick  on  like 


"  YEO  HO,  WE  GO!"  121 


a  limpet,  and  try  to  withstand  the    strain. 
But  don't  do  it,  unless  really  necessary." 

He  picked  up  Myra's  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  put  them  into  his  big  pockets. 

At  that  moment  an  advance  wave  rushed  up 
the  sand,  and  caught  their  bare  feet. 

"Oh,  Jim  Airth,"  cried  Myra,  "go  without 
m<  I  have  not  a  steady  head.  I  cannot 
climb." 

He  put  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  and 
looked  full  into  her  eyes. 

"You  can  climb,"  he  said.  "You  must 
climb.  You  shall  climb.  We  must  climb — 
or  drown.  And,  remember:  if  you  fall,  I 
fall  too.  You  will  not  be  saving  me,  by 
letting  yourself  go." 

She  looked  up  into  his  ey<  >airingly. 

They  blazed  into  hers  from  1  h  his  bent 

1»p       .      She  felt  the  tn  lous  mastery  of 

will.     Her  own  gave  one  final  struggle. 

"  I  have  nothing  t<>  live  for,  Jim  Airth,"  she 

said.      "I  am  alone  in  the  world." 

••   i,"  he  cried.    "  I  have  been  worse 

than    aloil  a   half  But 


122        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

there  is  life  to  live  for.  Would  you  throw 
away  the  highest  of  all  gifts?  I  want  to  live — - 
Good  God!  I  must  live;  and  so  must  you.  We 
live  or  die  together." 

He  loosed  her  shoulders  and  took  her  by 
the  wrists.  He  lifted  her  trembling  hands, 
and  held  them  against  his  breast. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  so,  in  absolute 
silence. 

Then  Myra  felt  herself  completely  domi- 
nated. All  fear  slipped  from  her;  but  the 
assurance  which  took  its  place  was  his  courage, 
not  hers;  and  she  knew  it.  Lifting  her  head, 
she  smiled  at  him,  with  white  lips. 

"I  shall  not  fall,"  she  said. 

Another  wave  swept  round  their  ankles,  and 
remained  there. 

"Good,"  said  Jim  Airth,  and  loosed  her 
v:rists.  "We  shall  owe  our  lives  to  each 
other.  Next  time  I  look  into  your  face, 
please  God,  we  shall  be  in  safety.     Come!" 

He  sprang  up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  standing 
in  the  highest  niches  he  had  made. 

"Now    follow    me,    carefully,"    he    said; 


"YEO  HO,  WE  GO!"  123 

"slowly,  and  carefully.  We  are  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  hurry.  Always  keep  each  hand  and 
each  foot  firmly  in  a  niche.  Are  you  there? 
Good!  .  .  .  Now  don't  look  either  up  or 
down,  but  keep  your  eyes  on  my  heels. 
Directly  I  move,  come  on  into  the  empty 
places.  See?  .  .  .  Now  then.  Can  you 
manage?  .  .  .  Good!  On  we  go!  After  all 
it  won't  take  long.  ...  I  say,  what  fun  if 
the  Miss  Murgatroyds  peeped  over  the  cliff! 
tnelia  would  be  so  shocked  at  our  bare  feet. 
Eliza  would  cry:  'Oh  my  dear  love!'  And 
Susie  would  promptly  fall  upon  us!  Hullo! 
Steady  down  there!  Don't  laugh  too  much. 
.   .   .     I  :ifc,  this.     I  bought  it  in  Mexico. 

And  if  the  l»i,L,r  Made  gives  out,  there  arc  two 
more;  also  a  saw,  and  a  cork-screw.  .  .  .  Mind 
the  fall;  nd  does  not  get  into  your  eyes. 

.  .  .    Tell   •  •■   if   the    niches  are  not   d© 
and  remember  there  is  do  hurry,  \ 
are  i  ng  to  catch  any  particular  train! 

.11  then-!     Don't  laugh.   .   .   .      Up 
!    This  is  a  thia  the 


124        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

- 

my  heels — I  wish  they  were  more  worth 
looking  at — and  remember  the  belt  is  quite 
handy,  and  I  am  as  firm  as  a  rock  up  here. 
You  and  all  the  Miss  Murgatroyds  might 
hang  on  to  it  together.  Steady  down  there! 
.  .  .  All  right;  I  won't  mention  them.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  the  water  must  be  fairly  deep 
below  us  now.  If  you  fell,  you  would  merely 
get  a  ducking.  I  should  slide  down  and  pull 
you  out,  and  we  would  start  afresh.  .  .  . 
Good  Lord !  .  .  .  Oh,  never  mind !  Nothing. 
Only,  my  knife  slipped,  but  I  caught  it  again. 
.  .  .  We  must  be  half  way,  by  now.  How 
lucky  we  have  my  glissading  marks  to  guide 
us.  I  can't  see  the  ledge  from  here.  Let 's 
sing  'Nancy  Lee.'  I  suppose  you  know  it.  I 
can  always  work  better  to  a  good  rollicking 
tune." 

Then,  as  he  drove  his  blade  into  the  cliff, 
Jim  Airth's  gay  voice  rang  out: 

"Of  all  the  wives  as  e'er  you  know, 

Yeo  ho!  lads!  ho! 

Yeo  ho!  Yeo  ho! 

There  's  none  like  Nancy  Lee,  I  trow. 


"YEO  HO,  WE  GO!"  125 

Yeo  ho!  lads!  ho! 

Yeo  ho! 

See  there  she  stands —  Blow!  I  've  struck 
a  rock!  Not  a  big  one  though.  Remember 
this  step  will  be  slightly  more  to  your  right 
— and  waves  her  hands, 

Upon  the  quay, 

And  cvry  day  when  I  'm  away, 

She  7/  watch  for  me; 

And  whisper  low,  when  tempests  blow — 
Oh,  hang  these  unexpected  stones!  That  's 
finished  my  big  blade!     — For  Jack  at  seat 

Yeo  ho!  lads,  ho!   Yeo  ho! 
Now  the  chorus. 

The  sailor's  wife  the  sailor's  star  shall  be, — • 
Come  on!     You  sing  too!" 

"  Yeo  ho!  wc  go, 
Across  the  seal" 

can:'-    Lady    Ingleby's    voice    from    below, 
nd  quavering. 
"That  'aright!"  shouted  Jim  Airth.    "Keep 
it  up!     I  i  ledge  now,  just  above 


126        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

77ze  bo's'n  pipes  the  watch  below, 

Yeo  ho!  lads!  ho! 

Yeo  ho!  Yeo  ho! 

Then  here  's  a  health  afore  we  go, 

Yeo  ho!  lads!  ho! 

Yeo  ho! 

A  long,  long  life  to  my  sweet  wife, 

And  mates  at  sea —  Keep  it  up  down 
there!  I  have  one  hand  on  the  ledge — 
And  keep  our  bones  from  Davy  Jones 

Where'er  we  be  /" 

"And — keep  our  bones — from — 
Davy  Jones — who  eer  he  be," 

quavered  Lady  Ingleby,  making  one  final 
effort  to  move  up  into  the  vacant  niches, 
though  conscious  that  her  fingers  and  toes 
were  so  numb  that  she  could  not  feel  them 
grip  the  sand. 

Then  Jim  Airth's  whole  body  vanished 
suddenly  from  above  her,  as  he  drew  himself 
on  to  the  ledge. 

"Yeo  ho!  we  go!"  Came  his  gay  voice 
from  above. 


"YEO  HO,  WE  GO!"  127 

"Yeoho!  Yeolwr 

sang  Lady  Ingleby,  in  a  faint  whisper. 

She  could  not  move  on  into  the  empty 
niches.  She  could  only  remain  where  she 
was,  clinging  to  the  face  of  the  cliff. 

She  suddenly  thought  of  a  fly  on  a  wall; 
and  remembered  a  particular  fly,  years  ago, 
on  her  nursery  wall.  She  had  followed  its 
ascent  with  a  small  interested  finger,  and  her 
nurse  had  come  by  with  a  duster,  and  saying: 
"  Xasty  thing!"  had  ruthlessly  flicked  it  off. 
The  fly  had  fallen — fallen  dead,  on  the 
nursery  carpet.  .  .  .  Lady  Ingleby  felt  she 
too  was  falling.  She  gave  one  agonised  glance 
u{>  to  the  towering  clitT,  with  the  line  of 

sky  above  it.     Then  everything  swayed  and 
rocked.     "A  mother  of  soldiers,"  her  brain 
.  "must  fall  without  screaming."  Then 

A  long  arm  shot  down   from   above;  a 

stmng  ha  I  her  firmly. 

<•,"  said  Jim  Airth's  voice, 
close  to  her  ear,  "and  I  can  lift  you." 

She  marie  the  i  Oft,  and  he  drew  her  on  to 
th<  him. 


1 2fi        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Lady  Ingle- 
by .     "  And  who  was  Davy  Jones  ? ' ' 

Jim  Airth's  face  was  streaming  with  per- 
spiration. His  mouth  was  full  of  sand.  His 
heart  was  beating  in  his  throat.  But  he  loved 
1  to  play  the  game,  and  he  loved  to  see  another 
do  it.  So  he  laughed  as  he  put  his  arm  around 
her,  holding  her  tightly  so  that  she  should  not 
realise  how  much  she  was  trembling. 

"Davy  Jones,"  he  said,  "is  a  gentleman 
who  has  a  locker  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  into 
which  all  drown'd  things  go.  I  am  afraid 
your  pretty  parasol  has  gone  there,  and  my 
boots  and  stockings.  But  we  may  well  spare 
him  those.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  say!  .  .  .  Yes,  do 
have  a  good  cry.  Don't  mind  me.  And 
don't  you  think  between  us  we  could  remember 
some  sort  of  a  prayer?  For  if  ever  two  people 
faced  death  together,  we  have  faced  it;  and, 
by  God's  mercy,  here  we  are — alive." 


CHAPTER  XI 

TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY 

l\AYRA  never  forgot  Jim  Airth's  prayer. 
Instinctively  she  knew  it  to  be  the  first 
time  he  had  voiced  his  soul's  thanksgiving  or 
petitions  in  the  presence  of  another.  Also 
she  realised  that,  for  the  first  time  in  her  whole 
life,  prayer  became  to  her  a  reality.  As  she 
crouched  on  the  ledge  beside  him,  shaking 
uncontrollably,  so  that,  but  for  his  arm  about 
her,  she  must  have  lost  her  balance  and  fallen ; 
as  she  heard  that  strong  soul  expressing  in 
simple  unorthodox  language  its  gratitude  for 
t  ty,  mingled  with  earnest  petition 
fur  keeping  through  the  night  and  comple 
deliverance   in   the   morning;   it  I  to 

Myra  that  the  heavens  opened,  and  the  felt 
e  of  God   surrounded   them  in  their 

filled  her.     By  the  time 

9  139 


!  30        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

those  disjointed  halting  sentences  were  finished, 
Myra  had  ceased  trembling;  and  when  Jim 
Airth,  suddenly  at  a  loss  how  else  to  wind  up 
his  prayer,  commenced  ' '  Our  Father,  Who  art 
in  heaven,"  Myra's  sweet  voice  united  with 
his,  full  of  an  earnest  fervour  of  petition. 

At  the  final  words,  Jim  Airth  withdrew  his 
arm,  and  a  shy  silence  fell  between  them. 
The  emotion  of  the  mind  had  awakened  an 
awkwardness  of  body.  In  that  uniting  "Our 
Father,"  their  souls  had  leapt  on,  beyond 
where  their  bodies  were  quite  prepared  to 
follow. 

Lady  Ingleby  saved  the  situation.  She 
turned  to  Jim  Airth,  with  that  impulsive 
sweetness  which  could  never  be  withstood. 
In  the  rapidly  deepening  twilight,  he  could 
just  see  the  large  wistful  grey  eyes,  in  the 
white  oval  of  her  face. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  really  could  n't 
possibly  sit  all  night,  on  a  ledge  the  size  of  a 
Chesterfield  sofa,  with  a  person  I  had  to  call 
'Mr.'  I  could  only  sit  there  with  an  old  and 
intimate  friend,  who  would  naturally  call  me 


'TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  131 

'Myra,'  and  whom  I  might  call  'Jim.'  Unless 
I  may  call  you  'Jim,'  I  shall  insist  on  climbing 
down  and  swimming  home.  And  if  you 
address  me  as  'Mrs.  O'Mara,'  I  shall  certainly 
become  hysterical,  and  tumble  off!" 

"Why  of  course,"  said  Jim  Airth.  " I  hate 
titles  of  any  kind.  I  come  of  an  old  Quaker 
stock,  and  plain  names  with  no  prefixes 
always  seem  best  to  me.  And  are  we  not  old 
and  trusted  friends?  Was  not  each  of  those 
minutes  on  the  face  of  the  cliff,  a  year?  While 
that  second  which  elapsed  between  the  slipping 
of  my  knife  from  my  right  hand  and  the 
catching  of  it,  against  my  knee,  by  my  loft, 
may  go  at  ten  years!  Ah,  think  if  it  had 
dropped  altogether!  No,  don't  think.  We 
were  barely  half  way  up.  Now  you  must 
contrive  to  put  on  your  shoes  and  stockings." 
He  produced  them  from  his  pocket.  "And 
th-  '  find  out  how  to  place  oursch 

most  comfortably  and  safely.  We  have  but 
one   enemy  to   fight   during   the   next   seven 

hours  cramp.  You  must  tell  me  immediately 
if  you  feel  it  thi  anywhere.    I  have 


132        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


done  a  lot  of  scouting  in  my  time,  and  know 
a  dodge  or  two.  I  also  know  what  it  is  to 
lie  in  one  position  for  hours,  not  daring  to 
move  a  muscle,  the  cold  sweat  pouring  off  my 
face,  simply  from  the  agonies  of  cramp.  We 
must  guard  against  that." 

"Jim,"  said  Myra,  "how  long  shall  we  have 
to  sit  here?" 

He  made  a  quick  movement,  as  if  the  sound 
of  his  name  from  her  lips  for  the  first  time, 
meant  much  to  him ;  and  there  was  in  his  voice 
an  added  depth  of  joyousness,  as  he  answered: 

"It  would  be  impossible  to  climb  from  here 
to  the  top  of  the  cliff.  When  I  came  down,  I 
had  a  sheer  drop  of  ten  feet.  You  see  the 
cliff  slightly  overhangs  just  above  us.  So  far 
as  the  tide  is  concerned  we  might  clamber 
down  in  three  hours;  but  there  is  no  moon, 
and  by  then,  it  will  be  pitch  dark.  We  must 
have  light  for  our  descent,  if  I  am  to  land  you 
safe  and  unshaken  at  the  bottom.  Dawn 
should  be  breaking  soon  after  three.  The  sun 
rises  to-morrow  at  3.44;  but  it  will  be  quite 
light  before  then.     I  think  we  may  expect  to 


'TIVIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  1 33 


reach  the  Moorhead  Inn  by  4  a.m.  Let  us 
hope  Miss  Murgatroyd  will  not  be  looking  out 
of  her  window,  as  we  stroll  up  the  path." 

"What  are  they  all  thinking  now?"  ques- 
tioned Lady  Ingleby. 

"I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care,"  said  Jim 
Airth,  gaily.  "You  're  alive,  and  I  'm  alive; 
and  we  ' ve  done  a  record  climb !  Nothing  else 
matters." 

"No,  but  seriously,  Jim?" 

"Well,  seriously,  it  is  very  unlikely  that  I 
shall  be  missed  at  all.  I  often  dine  elsewhere, 
and  let  myself  in  quite  late;  or  stop  out 
altogether.     How  about  you  ? ' ' 

"Why,  curiously  enough,"  said  Myra,  "be- 
fore coming  out  I  locked  my  bedroom  door. 
I  have  the  key  here.  I  had  left  some  papers 
about — I  am  not  a  very  tidy  person. 
On  the  only  other  occn<i<>n  upon  which  I 
locked  my  door,  I  omitted  dinner  altogether, 
and  went  to  bed  on  returning  from  my  evening 

ilk.     I  am  sup:  to  be  doing  a 

cur  The   maid    tried   my   door,   went 

.'iv.  I  -lid  not  tnm  up  again  until  n- 


134        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

morning.     Most  likely  she  has  done  the  same 
to-night." 

"Then  I  don't  suppose  they  will  send  out  a 
search-party,"  said  Jim  Airth. 

"No.  We  are  so  alone  down  here.  We 
only  matter  to  ourselves,"  said  Myra. 

"And  to  each  other,"  said  Jim  Airth, 
quietly. 

Myra's  heart  stood  still. 

Those  four  words,  spoken  so  simply  by  that 
deep  tender  voice,  meant  more  to  her  than 
any  words  had  ever  meant.  They  meant  so 
much,  that  they  made  for  themselves  a  silence 
— a  vast  holy  temple  of  wonder  and  realisa- 
tion wherein  they  echoed  back  and  forth, 
repeating  themselves  again  and  again. 

The  two  on  the  ledge  sat  listening. 

The  chant  of  mutual  possession,  so  sud- 
denly set  going,  was  too  beautiful  a  thing  to 
be  interrupted  by  other  words. 

Even  Lady  Ingleby's  unfailing  habit  of 
tactful  speech  was  not  allowed  to  spoil  the 
deep  sweetness  of  this  unexpected  situation. 
Myra's  heart  was  waking;  and'  when  the  heart 


TIVIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  1 35 

is  stirred,  the  mind  sometimes  forgets  to  be 
tactful. 

At  length: — "Don't  you  remember,"  he  said, 
very  low,  "what  I  told  you  before  we  began 
to  climb?  Did  I  not  say,  that  if  we  succeeded 
in  reaching  the  ledge  safely,  we  should  owe 
our  lives  to  each  other?  Well,  we  did;  and 
— we  do." 

"Ah,  no,"  cried  Myra,  impulsively.  "No, 
Jim  Airth!     You — glad,  and  safe,  and  free — 

re  walking  along  the  top  of  these  cliffs.  I, 
in  my  senseless  folly,  lay  sleeping  on  the  sand 
below,  while  the  tide  rose  around  me.  You 
came  □  into  danger  to  save  me,   risking 

your  life  in  so  doing.  I  owe  you  my  life,  Jim 
Airth;  you  owe  me  nothing." 

The  man  beside  her  turned  and  looked  at 
,  with  his  quiet  whimsical  smi1   . 

"I  am  not  accustomed  to  have  my  state- 
:."  he  said,  drily. 

It    '.  ark,   they  could   only 

ly    I      '■  '  y    lau  so   un- 

us  I     that     kind     of     remark,     that,     at 


136       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

the  moment  she  could  frame  no  suitable 
reply. 

Presently: — "I  suppose  I  rea^y  owe  my 
life  to  my  scarlet  parasol,"  she  said.  "Had 
it  not  attracted  your  attention,  you  would  not 
have  seen  me." 

"Should  I  not?"  questioned  Jim  Airth,  his 
eyes  on  the  white  loveliness  of  her  face, 
"Since  I  saw  you  first,  on  the  afternoon  of 
your  arrival,  have  you  ever  once  come  within 
my  range  of  vision  without  my  seeing  you, 
and  taking  in  every  detail?  " 

"On  the  afternoon  of  my  arrival?"  ques- 
tioned Lady  Ingleby,  astonished. 

"Yes,"  replied  Jim  Airth,  deliberately. 
"Seven  o'clock,  on  the  first  of  June.  I  stood 
at  the  smoking-room  window,  at  a  loose  end  of 
all  things ;  sick  of  myself,  dissatisfied  with  my 
manuscript,  tired  of  fried  fish — don't  laugh; 
small  things,  as  well  as  great,  go  to  make  up 
the  sum  of  a  man's  depression.  Then  the 
gate  swung  back,  and  YOU — in  golden  capitals 
— the  sunlight  in  your  eyes,  came  up  the 
garden  path.     I  judged  you  to  be  a  woman 


'TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  137 

grown,  in  years  perhaps  not  far  short  of  my 
own  age;  I  guessed  you  a  woman  of  the  world, 
with  a  position  to  fill,  and  a  knowledge  of  men 
and  things.  Yet  you  looked  just  a  lovely 
child,  stepping  into  fairy-land;  the  joyful 
surprise  of  unexpected  holiday  danced  in  your 
radiant  eyes.  Since  then,  the  beautiful  side 
of  life  has  always  been  you — YOU ,  in  golden 
capitals." 

Jim  Airth  paused,  and  sat  silent. 
It  was  quite  dark  now. 
Myra   slipped   her   hand   into   his,    which 
closed   upon   it   with   a   strong   unhesitating 
p. 
"Go  on,  Jim,"  she  said,  softly. 
I  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  saw   your 
name  in  the  visitors'  book.     The  ink  was  still 
et.  e    handwriting    was    that    of    the 

•child — I  should  like  to  set  you  copies! 
The  surprised  me—  ably.     I   had 

1    to  at   once  to   place   the 

■man  who  had  walked  up  the  path.     It  was 
1  a  relief  to  find  that  my  Fairy- 
land Princess  w«  r  all  a  fashionable 


138        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

beauty  or  a  society  leader,  but  owned  just  a 
simple  Irish  name,  and  lived  at  a  Lodge." 

"Go  on,  Jim,"  said  Lady  Ingleby,  rather 
tremulously. 

"Then  the  name  'Shenstone'  interested  me, 
because  I  know  the  Ingleby s — at  least,  I 
knew  Lord  Ingleby,  well;  and  I  shall  soon 
know  Lady  Ingleby.  In  fact  I  have  written 
to-day  asking  for  an  interview.  I  must  see 
her  on  business  connected  with  notes  of  her 
husband's  which,  if  she  gives  permission,  are 
to  be  embodied  in  my  book.  I  suppose  if  you 
live  near  Shenstone  Park  you  know  the 
Inglebys?" 

"Yes,"  said  Myra.  "But  tell  me,  Jim; 
if — if  you  noticed  so  much  that  first  day; 
if  you  were — interested;  if  you  wanted  to  set 
me  copies — yes,  I  know  I  write  a  shocking 
hand; — why  would  you  never  look  at  me? 
Why  were  you  so  stiff  and  unfriendly?  Why 
were  you  not  as  nice  to  me  as  you  were  to 
Susie,  for  instance?" 

Jim  Airth  sat  long  in  silence,  staring  out  into 
the  darkness.     At  last  he  said : 


'TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  139 

"I  want  to  tell  you.  Of  course,  I  must  tell 
you.     But — may  I  ask  a  few  questions  first? " 

Lady  Ingleby  also  gazed  unseeingly  into  the 
darkness ;  but  she  leaned  a  little  nearer  to  the 
broad  shoulder  beside  her.  "Ask  me  what 
you  will,"  she  said.  "There  is  nothing,  in  my 
whole  life,  I  would  not  tell  you,  Jim  Airth." 

Her  cheek  was  so  close  to  the  rough 
Norfolk  jacket,  that  if  it  had  moved  a  shade 
nearer,  she  would  have  rested  against  it. 
But  it  did  not  move;  only,  the  clasp  on  her 
hand  tightened. 

"Were  you  married  very  young?"  asked 
Jim  Airth. 

"I  was  not  quite  eighteen.  It  is  ten  years 
ago." 

"Did  you  marry  for  love?" 

Ti  a  long  silence,  while  both  looked 

Steadily  into  the  darkness. 

Then  Myra  answered,  speaking  very  slowly. 
"To  be  quite  honest,  I  think  I  married  chiefly 
to  from  a  very  unhappy  home.    X 

I  v.'.'l  l  very  young,  and  knew  nothing — nothing 
of  life,  and  nothing  of  love;  ami — how  can  J 


140        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

explain,  Jim  Airth? — I  have  not  learnt  much 
during  these  ten  long  years." 

"Have  you  been  unhappy?"  He  asked  the 
question  very  low. 

"Not  exactly  unhappy.  My  husband  was 
a  very  good  man;  kind  and  patient,  beyond 
words,  towards  me.  But  I  often  vaguely 
felt  I  was  missing  the  Best  in  life.  Now — I 
know  I  was." 

"How  long  have  you  been — How  long  has 
he  been  dead?"  The  deep  voice  was  so 
tender,  that  the  question  could  bring  no  pain. 

"Seven  months,"  replied  Lady  Ingleby. 
"My  husband  was  killed  in  the  assault  on 
Targai." 

"At  Targai!"  exclaimed  Jim  Airth,  sur- 
prised into  betraying  his  astonishment.  Then 
at  once  recovering  himself:  "Ah,  yes;  of  course. 
Seven  months.     I  was  there,  you  know." 

But,  within  himself,  he  was  thinking  rapidly, 
and  much  was  becoming  clear. 

Sergeant  O'Mara!  Was  it  possible?  An 
exquisite  refined  woman  such  as  this,  bearing 
about   her   the   unmistakable   hall-mark    of 


'TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  1 4 1 

high  birth  and  perfect  breeding?  The  Sergeant 
was  a  fine  fellow,  and  superior — but,  good 
Lord!  Ilcr  husband!  Yet  girls  of  eighteen 
do  foolish  things,  and  repent  ever  after.  A 
runaway  match  from  an  unhappy  home;  then 
cast  off  by  her  relations,  and  now  left  friendless 
and  alone.  But — Sergeant  O'Mara!  Yet 
no  other  O'Mara  fell  at  Targai;  and  there 
was  some  link  between  him  and  Lord  Ingleby. 

Then,  into  his  musing,  came  Myra's  soft 
voice,  from  close  beside  him,  in  the  darkness: 
"My  husband  was  always  good  to  me; 
but " 

And  Jim  Airth  laid  his  other  hand  over  the 
one  he  held.     "I  am  sure  he  was,"  he  said, 

ntly.  "  But  if  you  had  been  older,  and  had 
known  more  of  love  and  life  you  would  have 

tie  differently.  Don't  try  to  explain.  I 
understand." 

And  Myra  gladly  left  it  at  that.  It  would 
ha  •  ry  difficult  to  explain  further, 

without  explaining  Michael;  and  all  thai  really 

.    that     with    or    without 
plan;  Jim  Airth  und 


142        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


'And  now — tell  me,"  she  suggested,  softly. 

'Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  pulling  himself  together, 
with  an  effort.  "My  experience  also  misses 
the  Best,  and  likewise  covers  ten  long  years. 
But  it  is  a  harder  one  than  yours.  I  married, 
when  a  boy  of  twenty-one,  a  woman,  older 
than  myself;  supremely  beautiful.  I  went 
mad  over  her  loveliness.  Nothing  seemed  to 
count  or  matter,  but  that.  I  knew  she  was 
not  a  good  woman,  but  I  thought  she  might 
become  so ;  and  even  if  she  did  n't  it  made  no 
difference.  I  wanted  her.  Afterwards  I 
found  she  had  laughed  at  me,  all  the  time. 
Also,  there  had  all  the  time  been  another — ■ 
an  older  man  than  I — who  had  laughed  with 
her.  He  had  not  been  in  a  position  to  marry 
her  when  I  did ;  but  two  years  later,  he  came 
into  money.     Then — she  left  me." 

Jim  Airth  paused.  His  voice  was  hard 
with  pain.  The  night  was  very  black.  In 
the  dark  silence  they  could  hear  the  rhythmic 
thunder  of  the  waves  pounding  monotonously 
against  the  cliff  below. 

"I  divorced  her,  of  course;  and  he  married 


'TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  143 

her;  but  I  went  abroad,  and  stayed  abroad. 
I  never  could  look  upon  her  as  other  than  my 
wife.  She  had  made  a  hell  of  my  life;  robbed 
me  of  every  illusion;  wrecked  my  ideals; 
imbittered  my  youth.  But  I  had  said,  before 
God,  that  I  took  her  for  my  wife,  until  death 
parted  us;  and,  so  long  as  we  were  both  alive, 
what  power  could  free  me  from  that  solemn 
oath?  It  seemed  to  me  that  by  remaining 
in  another  hemisphere,  I  made  her  second 
marriage  less  sinful.  Often,  at  first,  I  was 
tempted  to  shoot  myself,  as  a  means  of  right- 
ing this  other  wrong.  But  in  time  I  outgrew 
that  morbidness,  and  realised  that  though 
Love  is  good,  Life  is  the  greatest  gift  of  all. 
To  throw  it  away,  voluntarily,  is  an  un- 
paid in.  The  sui  punishment 
shi             loss  of  immortality.    Well,  I  found 

ork  to  do,  of  all  sorts,  in  America,  and  el 
wh<  re.     Ami  a  year  ago— she  I 

have  come  straight  fa         .  only  I  was  b 
for  that  n  on  the  frontier  they  calle  I  'a 

war.'      I  ti;  was  invali 

hom<  I  am  recruiting  and  finishing 


144        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

my  book.  Now  you  can  understand  why 
loveliness  in  a  woman,  fills  me  with  a  sort  of 
panic,  even  while  a  part  of  me  still  leaps  up 
instinctively  to  worship  it.  I  had  often  said 
to  myself  that  if  I  ever  ventured  upon  matri- 
mony again,  it  should  be  a  plain  face,  and  a 
noble  heart;  though  all  the  while  I  knew  I 
should  never  bring  myself  really  to  want  the 
plain  face.  And  yet,  just  as  the  burnt  child 
dreads  the  fire,  I  have  always  tried  to  look 
away  from  beauty.  Only — my  Fairy-land 
Princess,  may  I  say  it? — days  ago  I  began  to 
feel  certain  that  in  you — YOU  in  golden 
capitals — the  loveliness  and  the  noble  heart 
went  together.  But  from  the  moment  when, 
stepping  out  of  the  sunset,  you  walked  up  the 
garden  path,  right  into  my  heart,  the  fact  of 
you,  just  being  what  you  are,  and  being  here, 
meant  so  much  to  me,  that  I  did  not  dare  let 
it  mean  more.  Somehow  I  never  connected 
you  with  widowhood;  and  not  until  you  said 
this  evening  on  the  shore:  'I  am  a  soldier's 
widow,'  did  I  know  that  you  were  free.— 
There!  Now  you  have  heard  all  there  is  to 


'TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  145 

hear.  I  made  a  bad  mistake  at  the  beginning ; 
but  I  hope  I  am  not  the  sort  of  chap  you 
need  mind  sitting  on  a  ledge  with,  and 
calling  'Jim'." 

For  answer,  Myra's  cheek  came  trustfully 
to  rest  against  the  sleeve  of  the  rough  tweed 
coat.     "Jim,"  she  said;  "Oh,  Jim!" 

Presently:  "So  you  know  the  Inglebys?" 
remarked  Jim  Airth. 

"Yes,"  said  Myra. 

"Is   'The  Lodge'   near  Shenstone  Park?" 

"The  Lodge  is  in  the  park.  It  is  not  at  any 
of  the  gates. — I  am  not  a  gate-keeper,  Jim! — 
It  is  a  pretty  little  house,  standing  by  itself, 
just  ir.  he  north  entrance." 

"  Do  you  rent  it  from  them?" 

Myra  hesitated,  but  only  for  the  fraction 
a  second.  "No;  it  is  my  own.  Lord 
In]  it  to  me." 

"Lord  Ingleby?"  Jim  Airth's  voice  sounded 
I  brows.  "  Why  not  Lady  In  ?" 

'It  was  not  hers,  to  give.    All  that  is  h< 


10 


146        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

' '  I  see.    Which  of  them  did  you  know  first  ?  " 

"I  have  known  Lady  Ingleby  all  my  life." 
said  Myra,  truthfully;  "and  I  have  known 
Lord  Ingleby  since  his  marriage." 

"Ah.  Then  he  became  your  friend,  be- 
cause he  married  her?" 

Myra  laughed.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "I  sup- 
pose so." 

"What's  the  joke?" 

"Only  that  it  struck  me  as  an  amusing  way 
of  putting  it;  but  it  is  undoubtedly  true." 

"Have  they  any  children?" 

Myra's  voice  shook  slightly.  "No,  none. 
Why  do  you  ask?  " 

"Well,  in  the  campaign,  I  often  shared 
Lord  Ingleby 's  tent;  and  he  used  to  talk  in  his 
sleep." 

"¥es?" 

"There  was  one  name  he  often  called  and 
repeated." 

Lady  Ingleby's  heart  stood  still. 

"Yes?"  she  said,  hardly  breathing. 

"It  was  'Peter',"  continued  Jim  Airth. 
"The   night   before   he  was   killed,  he   kept 


'TIVIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  147 

turning  in  his  sleep  and  saying:  'Peter!  Hullo, 
little  Peter !  Come  here ! '  I  thought  perhaps 
he  had  a  little  son  named  Peter." 

"He  had  no  son,"  said  Lady  Ingleby, 
controlling  her  voice  with  effort.  "Peter 
was  a  dog  of  which  he  was  very  fond.  Was 
that  the  only  name  he  spoke  ? ' ' 

"The  only  one  I  ever  heard,"  replied  Jim 
Airth. 

Then  suddenly  Lady  Ingleby  clasped  both 
hands  round  his  arm. 

"Jim,"  she  whispered,  brokenly,  "Not  once 
have  you  spoken  my  name.  It  was  a  bargain. 
We  were  to  be  old  and  intimate  friends.  I 
seem  to  have  been  calling  you  'Jim'  all  my 
life!  But  you  have  not  yet  called  me  'Myra.' 
Let  me  hear  it  now,  please." 

Jim  Airth  laid  his  big  hand  over  both  of 
her  . 

"I  can't,"  he  said.  "Hush!  I  can't.  Not 
up  it  means  too  nnuh.      Wait  until 

to  earth  again.     Then — Oh,  I  say! 
'  i  help? " 

of    emotion    was    an    unknown 


148        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

quantity  to  Lady  Ingleby.  So  was  the  wild 
beating  of  her  own  heart.  But  she  knew  the 
situation  called  for  tact,  and  was  not  tactful 
speech  always  her  special  forte? 

"Jim,"  she  said," are  you  not  frightfully 
hungry?  I  should  be;  only  I  had  an  enor- 
mous tea  before  coming  out.  Would  you 
like  to  hear  what  I  had  for  tea?  No.  I  am 
afraid  it  would  make  you  feel  worse.  I  sup- 
pose dinner  at  the  inn  was  over,  long  ago. 
I  wonder  what  variation  of  fried  fish  they  had, 
and  whether  Miss  Susannah  choked  over  a 
fish-bone,  and  had  to  be  requested  to  leave 
the  room.  Oh,  do  you  remember  that  evening? 
You  looked  so  dismayed  and  alarmed,  I  quite 
thought  you  were  going  to  the  rescue!  I 
wonder  what  time  it  is?" 

"We  can  soon  tell  that,"  said  Jim  Airth, 
cheerfully.  He  dived  into  his  pocket,  pro- 
duced a  matchbox  which  he  had  long  been 
fingering  turn  about  with  his  pipe  and  tobacco- 
pouch,  struck  a  light,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
Myra  saw  the  lean  brown  face,  in  the  weird 
flare  of  the  match.     She  also  saw  the  horrid 


•TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  149 

depth  so  close  to  them,  which  she  had  almost 
forgotten.  A  sense  of  dizziness  came  over 
her.  She  longed  to  cling  to  his  arm;  but 
he  had  drawn  it  resolutely  away. 

"Half  past  ten,"  said  Jim  Airth.  "Miss 
Murgatroyd  has  donned  her  night-cap.  Miss 
Eliza  has  sighed:  l Good-night,  summer,  good- 
night%  good-night'  at  her  open  lattice;  and 
Susie,  folding  her  plump  hands,  has  said: 
1  Now  I  lay  me.' 

Myra  laughed.  "And  they  will  all  be 
listening  for  you  to  dump  out  your  big  boots," 
she  said.  "That  is  always  your  'Good-night' 
to  the  otherwise  silent  house." 

"No,  really?  Does  it  make  a  noise?"  said 
Jim  Airth,  ruefully.     "Never  again " 


"Oh,  but  you  must,"  said  Myra.  "Hove — ■ 
I  mean  Susie  loves  the  sound,  and  listens 
for  it.  Jim,  that  match  reminds  me: — 
why  don't    you    smoke?      Surely    it    would 

'p  the  hunger,  and  be  comfortable  and 
cheering." 

Jim  Airth's  pipe  and  pouch  were  out  in  a 
twinkling. 


1 50        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


"Sure  you  don't  mind?  It  doesn't  make 
you  sick,  or  give  you  a  headache?" 

"No,  I  think  I  like  it,"  said  Myra.  "In 
fact,  I  am  sure  I  like  it.  That  is,  I  like  to 
sit  beside  it.     No,  I  don't  do  it  myself." 

Another  match  flared,  and  again  she  saw  the 
chasm,  and  the  nearness  of  the  edge.  She 
bore  it  until  the  pipe  was  drawing  well.  Then : 
"Oh,  Jim,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  sorry;  but  I 
am  afraid  I  am  becoming  dizzy.  I  feel  as 
though  I  must  fall  over."  She  gave  a  half  sob. 

Jim  Airth  turned,  instantly  alert. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said,  but  the  sharp  word 
sounded  tender.  ' '  Four  good  feet  of  width  are 
as  safe  as  forty.  Change  your  position  a  bit." 
He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  moved  her  so 
that  she  leant  more  completely  against  the 
cliff  at  their  backs.  "Now  forget  the  edge," 
he  said,  "and  listen.  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
camp  yarns,  and  tales  of  the  Wild  West." 

Then  as  they  sat  on  in  the  darkness,  Jim 
Airth  smoked  and  talked,  painting  vivid 
word-pictures  of  life  and  adventure  in  other 
lands.     And    Myra    listened,    absorbed    and 


'TWIXT  SEA  AND  SKY  151 

enchanted ;  every  moment  realising  more  fully, 
as  he  unconsciously  revealed  it,  the  manly 
strength  and  honest  simplicity  of  his  big 
nature,  with  its  fun  and  its  fire;  its  huge 
capacity  for  enjoyment;  its  corresponding 
capacity  for  pain. 

And,  as  she  listened,  her  heart  said:  "Oh, 
my  cosmopolitan  cowboy!  Thank  God  you 
found  no  title  in  the  book,  to  put  you  off. 
Thank  God  you  found  no  name  which  you 
could  'place,'  relegating  its  poor  possessor  to 
the  ranks  of  'society  leaders'  in  which  you 
would  have  had  no  share.  And,  oh!  most 
of  all,  I  thank  God  for  the  doctor's  wise 
injunction:    'Leave    behind    you    your    own 

atity'!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

UNDER  THE  MORNING  STAR 

THHE  night  wore  on. 

Stars  shone  in  the  deep  purple  sky; 
bright  watchful  eyes  looking  down  unwearied 
upon  the  sleeping  world. 

The  sound  of  the  sea  below  fell  from  a  roar 
to  a  murmur,  and  drew  away  into  the  distance. 

It  was  a  warm  June  night,  and  very  still. 

Jim  Airth  had  moved  along  the  ledge  to  the 

further  end,  and  sat  swinging  his  legs  over  the 

edge.     His  content  was  so  deep  and  full,  that 

ordinary  speech  seemed  impossible ;  and  silence, 

a  glad  necessity.     The  prospect  of  that  which 

the  future  might  hold  in  store,  made  the  ledge 

too  narrow  to  contain  him.     He  sought  relief 

in  motion,  and  swung  his  long  legs  out  into  the 

darkness. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  at  his 

152 


UNDER  THE  MORNING  STAR  153 

companion's  silence;  the  reason  for  his  own 
had  been  so  all-sufficient. 

At  length  he  struck  a  match  to  see  the  time; 
then,  turning  with  a  smile,  held  it  so  that  its 
light  illumined  Myra. 

She  knelt  upon  the  ledge,  her  hands  pressed 
against  the  overhanging  cliff,  her  head  turned 
in  terror  away  from  it.  Her  face  was  ashen  in 
its  whiteness,  and  large  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks. 

Jim  dropped  the  match,  with  an  exclama- 
tion, and  groped  towards  her  in  the  darkness. 

"Dear!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  my  dear,  what  is 
the  matter?  Selfish  fool,  that  I  am!  I 
thought  you  were  just  resting,  quiet  and 
content." 

His  groping  hands  found  and  held  her. 

"Oh,  Jim,"  sobbed  Lady  Ingleby,  "I  am 

so  sorry!     It  is  so  weak  and  unworthy.     But 

I    am    afraid    I    feel    faint.     The    whole   cliil 

:  and  move.     Every  moment    I 

r  it  will  tip  me  over.  And  you  seemed 
miles  away!" 

"  You  arc  faint,"'         1  Jim  Airth;  "and  no 


1 54        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

wonder.  There  is  nothing  weak  or  unworthy 
about  it.  You  have  been  quite  splendid.  It 
is  I  who  have  been  a  thoughtless  ass.  But  I 
can't  have  you  fainting  up  here.  You  must 
lie  down  at  once.  If  I  sit  on  the  edge  with 
my  back  to  you,  can  you  slip  along  behind  me 
and  lie  at  full  length,  leaning  against  the 
cliff?" 

"No,  oh  no,  I  could  n't  !"  whispered  Myra. 
"It  frightens  me  so  horribly  when  you  hang 
your  legs  over  the  edge,  and  I  can't  bear  to 
touch  the  cliff.  It  seems  worse  than  the  black 
emptiness.  It  rocks  to  and  fro,  and  seems  to 
push  me  over.  Oh,  Jim!  What  shall  I  do? 
Help  me,  help  me!" 

"You  must  lie  down,"  said  Jim  Airth, 
between  his  teeth.  "Here,  wait  a  minute. 
Move  out  a  little  way.  Don't  be  afraid. 
I  have  hold  of  you.  Let  me  get  behind 
you.  .  .  .  That  's  right.  Now  you  are  not 
touching  the  cliff.  Let  me  get  my  shoulders 
firmly  into  the  hollow  at  this  endr  and  my 
feet  fixed  at  the  other.  There!  With  my 
back  rammed  into  it  like  this,  nothing  short 


UNDER  THE  MORNING  STAR  155 

of  an  earthquake  could  dislodge  me.  Now 
dear — turn  your  back  to  me  and  your  face 
to  the  sea  and  let  yourself  go.  You  will  not 
fall  over.     Do  not  be  afraid." 

Very  gently,  but  very  firmly,  he  drew  her 
into  his  arms. 

Tired,    frightened,    faint, — Lady    Ingleby 
was  conscious  at  first  of  nothing  save  the 
intense  relief  of  the  sense  of  his  great  strength 
about  her.     She  seemed  to  have  been  fighting 
the  cliff  and  resisting  the  gaping  darkness, 
until  she  was  utterly  worn  out.     Now  she 
yielded   to   his   gentle   insistence,    and    sank 
into   safety.     Her   cheek   rested   against   his 
rough  coat,  and  it  seemed  to  her  more  soothing 
than  the  softest  pillow.     With  a  sigh  of  con- 
it,  she  folded  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
and    he    laid    one    of    his    big    ones     firmly 
i   both.      She    felt    so    safe,    and 
Id. 

:cn  she  heard  Jim  Airth's  voice,  close  to 
her  ear. 
"We  are  not  alone,"  he  said.    "Yoa  must 

try   1  dear;  but   first   T   want  you  to 


156        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

realise  that  we  are  not  alone.  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean?  God  is  here.  When  I  was  a 
very  little  chap,  I  used  to  go  to  a  Dame-school 
in  the  Highlands ;  and  the  old  dame  made  me 
learn  by  heart  the  hundred  and  thirty-ninth 
psalm.  I  have  repeated  parts  of  it  in  all  sorts 
of  places  of  difficulty  and  danger.  I  am  going 
to  say  my  favourite  verses  to  you  now. 
Listen.  'Whither  shall  I  go  from  Thy  Spirit? 
or  whither  shall  I  flee  from  Thy  presence?  .  .  . 
If  I  take  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and  dwell 
in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea;  even  there 
shall  Thy  hand  lead  me,  and  Thy  right  hand 
shall  hold  me.  If  I  say,  Surely  the  dark- 
ness shall  cover  me ;  even  the  night  shall  be  light 
about  me.  Yea,  the  darkness  hideth  not  from 
Thee;  but  the  night  shineth  as  the  day:  the 
darkness  and  the  light  are  both  alike  to  Thee. 
.  .  .  How  precious  also  are  Thy  thoughts 
unto  me,  O  God!  how  great  is  the  sum  of 
them.  If  I  should  count  them  they  are  more 
in  number  than  the  sand:  when  I  awake  I  am 
still  with  Thee.'  " 

The   deep    voice    ceased.     Lady    Ingleby 


UNDER  THE  MORNING  STAR  157 

opened  her  eyes.  "I  was  nearly  asleep," 
she  said.     "How  good  you  are,  Jim." 

"No,  I  am  not  good,"  he  answered.  "I  'm 
a  tough  chap,  full  of  faults,  and  beset  by 
failings.  Only — if  you  will  trust  me,  please 
God,  I  will  never  fail  you.  But  now  I  want 
you  to  sleep;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  think 
about  me.  I  am  merely  a  thing,  which  by 
God's  providence  is  allowed  to  keep  you  in 
safety.  Do  you  see  that  wonderful  planet, 
hanging  like  a  lamp  in  the  sky?  Watch  it, 
while  I  tell  you  some  lines  written  by  an 
American  woman,  on  the  thought  of  that  last 
verse." 

And  with  his  cheek  against  her  soft  hair,  and 
his  strong  arms  firmly  round  her,  Jim  Airth 
repeated,  slowly,  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe's  match- 
less poem : 

"  Still,  still  with  Thee,  when  purple  morning  brcakcth, 
When  the  bird  \v;ikcth,  and  the  shadows  flee; 

thafl  morning,  lovelier  than  daylight, 
Dawns  the  sweet  consciousness — I  am  with  Thee. 

"AlODfl  with  Thee,  amid  the  mystic  shadows, 
The  :.'.lcmn  QUID  of  nature  newly  born; 


15S        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Alone  with  Thee,  in  breathless  adoration, 
In  the  calm  dew  and  freshness  of  the  morn. 

"As  in  the  dawning,  o'er  the  waveless  ocean, 
The  image  of  the  morning  star  doth  rest; 
So  in  this  stillness  Thou  beholdest  only 
Thine  image  in  the  waters  of  my  breast. 

"When  sinks  the  soul,  subdued  by  toil,  to  slumber 
Its  closing  eye  looks  up  to  Thee  in  prayer ; 
Sweet  the  repose,  beneath  Thy  wings  o'ershadowing, 
But  sweeter  still  to  wake,  and  find  Thee  there. 

"So  shall  it  be  at  last,  in  that  bright  morning 
When  the  soul  waketh,  anc1  life's  shadows  flee; 
Oh,  in  that  hour,  fairer  than  daylight's  dawning, 
Shall  rise  the  glorious  thought,  I  am  with  Thee!" 

Jim  Airth's  voice  ceased.  He  waited  a 
moment  in  silence. 

Then — "Do  you  like  it?"  he  asked  softly. 

There  was  no  answer.  Myra  slept  as 
peacefully  as  a  little  child.  He  could  feel  the 
regular  motion  of  her  quiet  breathing,  beneath 
his  hand. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Jim  Airth,  with  his 
©yes  on  the  morning  star. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  AWAKENING 

A  A  7HEN  Lady  Ingleby  opened  her  eyes,  she 
could  not,  for  a  moment,  imagine  where 
she  was. 

Dawn  was  breaking  over  the  sea.  A  rift 
of  silver,  in  the  purple  sky,  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  morning  star.  She  could  see  the 
silvers'  gleam  reflected  in  the  ocean. 

"Why  am  I   sleeping  so  close  to  a  large 
ndow?"  queried  her  t>  d  mind.     "Or 

am  I  i        balcony?" 

"Why  do  J    feel  so  extraordinarily  strong 
?"  qu<   tionedher:  Lowly  awakening 
:y. 

11  and  consi  <t. 

Then  looking  large  bn 

hand    das]         both    hers.     II<t   head 
r<    ting  :ji  the  curve  of  the  arm  to  which  the 


1 60        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

hand  belonged.  A  strong  right  arm  was 
flung  over  and  around  her.  All  questionings 
were  solved  by  two  short  words:  "Jim  Airth." 

Lady  Ingleby  lay  very  still.  She  feared  to 
break  the  deep  spell  of  restfulness  which  held 
her.  She  hesitated  to  bring  down  to  earth  the 
exquisite  sense  of  heaven,  by  which  she  was 
surrounded. 

As  the  dawn  broke  over  the  sea,  a  wonderful 
light  dawned  in  her  eyes,  a  radiance  such  as 
had  never  shone  in  those  sweet  eyes  before. 
"Dear  God,"  she  whispered,  "am  I  to  know 
the  Best?" 

Then  she  gently  withdrew  one  hand,  and 
laid  it  on  the  hand  which  had  covered  both. 

"Jim,"  she  said.    "Jim!  Look!    It  is  day." 

"Yes?  "  came  Jim  Airth's  voice  from  behind 
her.  "Yes?  What?  come  in!— Hullo!  Oh,  I 
say!" 

Myra  smiled  into  the  dawning.  She  had 
already  come  through  those  first  moments 
of  astonished  realisation.  But  Jim  Airth 
awoke  to  the  situation  more  quickly  than  s.be 
had  done. 


THE  A  WAKENING  161 

' ' Hullo ! ' '  he  said .  "I  meant  to  keep  watch 
all  the  time;  but  I  must  have  slept.  Are  you 
all  right?  Sure?  No  cramp?  Well,  I  have  a 
cramp  in  my  left  leg  which  will  make  me  kick 
down  the  cliff  in  another  minute,  if  I  don't 
move  it.  Let  me  help  you  up.  .  .  .  That  's 
the  way.  Now  you  sit  safely  there,  while  I 
get  unwedged.  .  .  .  By  Jove!  I  believe  I  've 
grown  into  the  cliff,  like  a  fossil  ichthyosaurus. 
Did  you  ever  see  an  ichthyosaurus?  Does  n't 
it  seem  years  since  you  said :  'And  who  is  Davy 
Jones?'  Don't  you  want  some  breakfast? 
I   suppose  it's  about  time  we  went  home." 

Talking  gaily  all  the  time,  Jim  Airth  drew 
up  his  long  limbs,  rubbing  them  vigorously; 
stretched  his  arms  above  his  head ;  then  passed 
hand  over  his  tumbled  hair. 

"My  wig!"  he  said.  "What  a  morning! 
And  how  good  to  be  alive!" 

Myra  stole  a  look  at  him.  I  lis  eyes  were 
turned  nl.    The  same  dawn-light  was 

in  them,  as  shone  in  her  own. 

"Don't  you  want   breakfast?"  said   Jim 

Airth,  and  pulled  Ottt  his  watch. 


ii 


162        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


"I  do,"  said  Myra,  gaily.  ''And  now  I 
can  venture  to  tell  you  what  delicious  home- 
made bread  I  had  for  tea.  What  time  is  it, 
Jim?" 

"Half  past  three.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
sun  will  rise.  Watch!  Did  you  ever  before 
see  the  dawn?  Is  it  not  wonderful?  Always 
more  of  pearl  and  silver  than  at  sunset.  Look 
how  the  narrow  rift  has  widened  and  spread 
right  across  the  sky.  The  Monarch  of  Day  is 
coming!  See  the  little  herald  clouds,  in  livery 
of  pink  and  gold.  Now  watch  where  the  sea 
looks  brightest.  Ah!  .  .  .  There  is  the  tip 
of  his  blood-red  rim,  rising  out  of  the  ocean. 
And  how  quickly  the  whole  ball  appears. 
Now  see  the  rippling  path  of  gold  and 
crimson,  a  royal  highway  on  the  waters, 
right  from  the  shore  below  us,  to  the 
footstool  of  his  brilliant  Majesty.  ...  A 
new  day  has  begun;  and  we  have  not  said 
'Good-morning.'  Why  should  we?  We  did 
not  say  '  Good-night.'  How  ideal  it  would  be, 
never  to  say  '  Good-morning ' ;  and  never  to  say 
J  Good-night.'     The   night   would  be  always 


THE  A  WAKENING  1 63 

'good',  and  so  would  the  morning.  All  life 
would  be  one  grand  crescendo  of  good — 
better — best.  What?  Have  we  found  the 
Best?  Ah,  hush!  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that 
yet.  .  .  .  Are  you  ready  for  the  climb 
down?  No,  I  can't  allow  any  peeping  over, 
and  considering.  If  you  really  feel  afraid 
of  it,  I  will  run  to  Tregarth  as  quickly  as 
possible,  rouse  the  sleeping  village,  bring  ropes 
and  men,  and  haul  you  up  from  the  top." 

"  I  absolutely  decline  to  be  'hauled  up  from 
the  top,'  or  to  be  left  here  alone,"  declared 
Lady  Ingleby. 

"Then  the  sooner  we  start  down,  the  better," 
said  Jim  Airth.  "I  'm  going  first."  He  was 
over  the  i  Ige  before  Myra  could  open  her  lips 
postulate.  "  Now  turn  round.  Hold  on 
to  the-  l<  firmly  with  your  hands,  and  give 
m-  Do  you  hear?     Do  as    I  tell 

i.     Don't  hesitate     It   is  less  steep  than 

it   Been*  lay.    We   are   quite   safe. 

Come  on!  .   .   .     That  '     right." 
Thru  Lady  Engl<  by  I  through  a  most 

rrifying  five  minutes,   while  she   yielded   in 


1 64        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

blind  obedience  to  the  strong  hands  beneath 
her,  and  the  big  voice  which  encouraged  and 
threatened  alternately. 

But  when  the  descent  was  over  and  she 
stood  on  the  shore  beside  Jim  Airth;  when 
together  they  turned  and  looked  in  silence  up 
the  path  of  glory  on  the  rippling  waters,  to 
the  blazing  beauty  of  the  rising  sun,  thankful 
tears  rushed  to  Lady  Ingleby's  eyes. 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  exclaimed,  "God  is  good! 
It  is  so  wonderful  to  be  alive!" 

Then  Jim  Airth  turned,  his  face  transfigured, 
the  sunlight  in  his  eyes,  and  opened  his  arms. 
"Myra,"  he  said.  "We  have  found  the 
Best." 


They  walked  along  the  shore,  and  up  the 
steep  street  of  the  sleeping  village,  hand  in 
hand  like  happy  children. 

Arrived  at  the  Moorhead  Inn,  they  pushed 
open  the  garden  gate,  and  stepped  noiselessly 
across  the  sunlit  lawn. 

The  front   door  was  firmly  bolted.    Jim 


THE  A  WAKENING  1 65 

Airth  slipped  round  to  the  back,  but  re- 
turned in  a  minute  shaking  his  head.  Then 
he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  big  knife 
which  had  served  them  so  well;  pushed  back 
the  catch  of  the  coffee-room  window;  softly 
raised  the  sash;  swung  one  leg  over,  and 
drew  Myra  in  after  him. 

Once  in  the  familiar  room,  with  its  mustard- 
pots  and  salt-cellars,  its  table-cloths,  left  on 
in  readiness  for  breakfast,  they  both  lapsed 
into  fits  of  uncontrollable  laughter;  laughter 
the  more  overwhelming,  because  it  had  to  be 
silent. 

Jim,  recovering  first,  went  off  to  the  larder 
to  forage  for  food. 

Lady  Ingleby  flew  noiselessly  up  to  her 
room  to  wash  her  hands,  and  smooth  her  hair. 
She   returned   in   two   minutes   to   find  Jim, 

ry  proud  of  his  success,  setting  out  a  crusty 
home-made  loaf,  a  large  cheese,  and  a  foaming 
tankard  of  ale. 

La  Ly  tngleby  longed  for  tea,  and  had  never 
in  her  life  drunk  ale  out  of  a  pewter  pot. 
But  not  for  worlds  would   she  have  spoiled 


166        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Jim  Airth's  boyish  delight  in  the  success  oi 
his  raid  on  the  larder. 

So  they  sat  at  the  centre  table,  Myra  in 
Miss  Murgatroyd's  place,  and  Jim  in  Susie's, 
and  consumed  their  bread-and-cheese,  and 
drank  their  beer,  with  huge  appetites  and 
prodigious  enjoyment.  And  Jim  used  Miss 
Susannah's  napkin,  and  pretended  to  be 
sentimental  over  it.  And  Myra  reproved  him, 
after  the  manner  of  Miss  Murgatroyd  reprov- 
ing Susie.  After  which  they  simultaneously 
exclaimed:  "Oh,  my  dear  love!"  in  Miss 
Eliza's  most  affecting  manner;  then  linked 
fingers  for  a  wish,  and  could  neither  of  them 
think  of  one. 

By  the  time  they  had  finished,  and  cleared 
away,  it  was  half  past  five.  They  passed  into 
the  hall  together. 

"You  must  get  some  more  sleep,"  said  Jim 
Airth,  authoritatively. 

"I  will,  if  you  wish  it,"  whispered  Myra; 
"but  I  never,  in  my  whole  life,  felt  so  strong 
or  so  rested.  Jim,  I  shall  sit  at  your  table, 
and  pour  out  your  coffee  at  breakfast.     Let  's 


THE  A  WAKENING  1 67 

aim  to  have  it  at  nine,  as  usual.  It  will  be 
Buch  fun  to  watch  the  Murgatroyds,  and.  to 
remember  our  cheese  and  beer.  If  you  are 
down  first,  order  our  breakfasts  at  the  same 
table." 

11  All  right,"  said  Jim  Airth. 

Myra  commenced  mounting  the  stairs, 
but  turned  on  the  fifth  step  and  hung  over  the 
banisters  to  smile  at  him. 

Jim  Airth  reached  up  his  hand.  "How  can 
I  let  you  go?"  he  exclaimed  suddenly. 

Myra  leaned  over,  and  smiled  into  his 
adoring  eyes. 

"How  can  I  go?"  she  whispered,  tenderly. 

Jim  Airth  took  both  her  hands  in  his.     His 
s  blazed  up  into  hers. 

"Myra,"  he  said,  "when  shall  we  be 
married?" 

Myra's  face  flamed,  just  as  the  soft  white 
cloud      had    flamed    when    the  sun  arose 
But   she   met   the   fire  of  his  eyes    without 
flinching. 

'When    you    will,    Jim,"    she    answei 
gentl; 


168        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


"As  soon  as  possible,  then,"  said  Jim 
Airth,  eagerly. 

Myra  withdrew  her  hands,  and  mounted 
two  more  steps;  then  turned  to  bend  and 
whisper:  "Why?" 

"Because,"  replied  Jim  Airth,  "I  do  not 
know  how  to  bear  that  there  should  be  a  day, 
or  an  hour,  or  a  minute,  when  we  cannot  be 
together." 

"Ah,  do  you  feel  that,  too?"  whispered 
Myra.   > 

"  Too?  "  cried  Jim  Airth.  "  Do  you— Myra! 
Comeback!" 

But  Lady  Ingleby  fled  up  the  stairs  like  a 
hare.  She  had  not  run  so  fast  since  she  was 
a  little  child  of  ten.  He  heard  her  happy 
laugh,  and  the  closing  of  her  door. 

Then  he  unbarred  the  front  entrance;  and, 
stepping  out,  stood  in  the  sunshine,  on  the 
path  where  he  had  seen  his  Fairy-land  Princess 
arrive. 

He  stretched  his  arms  over  his  head. 

1 '  Mine ! "  he  said.  ' '  Mine,  altogether !  Oh, 
my  God!    At  last,  I  have  won  the  Highest!" 


THE  A  WAKENING  1 69 

Then  he  raced  down  the  street  to  the  beach ; 
and  five  minutes  later,  in  the  full  strength  of 
his  vigorous  manhood,  he  was  swimming  up 
the  golden  path,  towards  the  rising  sun. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

GOLDEN  DAYS 

"THE  week  which  followed  was  one  of  ideal 
joy  and  holiday.  Both  knew,  instinc- 
tively, that  no  after  days  could  ever  be  quite 
as  these  first  days.  They  were  an  experience 
which  came  not  again,  and  must  be  realised 
and  enjoyed  with  whole-hearted  completeness. 
At  first  Jim  Airth  talked  with  determination 
of  a  special  licence,  and  pleaded  for  no  delay. 
But  Lady  Ingleby,  usually  vague  to  a  degree 
on  all  questions  of  law  or  matters  of  business, 
fortunately  felt  doubtful  as  to  whether  it 
would  be  wise  to  be  married  in  a  name  other 
than  her  own;  and,  though  she  might  have 
solved  the  difficulty  by  at  once  revealing  her 
identity  to  Jim  Airth,   she  was  anxious  to 

choose  her  own  time  and  place  for  this  revela- 

170 


GOLDEN  DAYS  171 


tion,  and  had  set  her  heart  upon  making  it 
amid  the  surroundings  of  her  own  beautiful 
home  at  Shenstone. 

"You  see,  Jim,"  she  urged,  "I  have  a  few 
friends  in  town  and  at  Shenstone,  who  take 
an  interest  in  my  doings;  and  I  could  hardly 
reappear  among  them  married!  Could  I, 
Jim?  It  would  seem  such  an  unusual  and 
unexpected  termination  to  a  rest-cure. 
Would  n't  it,  Jim?" 

Jim  Airth's  big  laugh  brought  Miss  Susie 
to  the  window.  It  caused  sad  waste  of 
Susannah's  time,  that  her  window  looked  out 
on  the  honeysuckle  arbour. 

"It  might  make  quite  a  run  on  rest-cures,** 
■aid  Jim  Airth. 

"Ah,  but  they  couldn't  all  meet  you," 
said  Myra;  and  the  look  he  receive  m  those 
BWi  I  for  the  vague  inaccuracy 

of  the  rejoinder. 

■  they  .    reed  to  have  <  of  this  free 

untram;  ell  returning   to   the 

w<  rl  I  "f  those  who  knew  them;  and  he  pro- 
mised t'  and  Be         in  her  own  home, 


1 72       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

before  taking  the  final  steps  which  should  make 
her  altogether  his. 

So  they  went  gay  walks  along  the  cliffs  in 
the  breezy  sunshine;  and  Myra,  clinging  to 
Jim's  arm,  looked  down  from  above  upon 
their  ledge. 

They  revisited  Horseshoe  Cove  at  low 
water,  and  Jim  Airth  spent  hours  cutting  the 
hurried  niches  into  proper  steps,  so  as  to  leave 
a  staircase  to  the  ledge,  up  which  people,  who 
chanced  in  future  to  be  caught  by  the  tide, 
might  climb  to  safety.  Myra  sat  on  the  beach 
and  watched  him,  her  eyes  alight  with  tender 
memories ;  but  she  absolutely  refused  to  mount 
again. 

"No,  Jim,"  she  said;  "not  until  we  come 
here  on  our  honeymoon.  Then,  if  you  wish, 
you  shall  take  your  wife  back  to  the  place 
where  we  passed  those  wonderful  hours.  But 
not  now." 

Jim,  who  expected  always  to  have  his  own 
way,  unless  he  was  given  excellent  reasons  in 
black  and  white  for  not  having  it,  was  about 
to  expostulate  and  insist,  when  he  saw  tears 


GOLDEN  DA  YS  1  73 


on  her  lashes  and  a  quiver  of  the  sweet  smiling 
lips,  and  gave  in  at  once  without  further 
question. 

They  hired  a  tent,  and  pitched  it  on  the 
shore  at  Tregarth,  Myra  telegraphed  for  a 
bathing-dress,  and  Jim  went  into  the  sea  in 
his  flannels  and  tried  to  teach  her  to  swim, 
holding  her  up  beneath  her  chin  and  saying: 
"One,  two!  one,  two!"  far  louder  than  Myra 
had  ever  had  it  said  to  her  before.  Thus, 
amid  much  splashing  and  laughter,  Lady 
Ingleby  accomplished  her  swim  of  ten  yards. 

Miss  Murgatroyd  was  shocked;  nay, 
more  than  shocked.  Miss  Murgatroyd  was 
scandalised!  She  took  to  her  bed  forthwith, 
expecting  Miss  Eliza  and  Miss  Susannah  to 
follow  her  example — in  the  spirit,  if  not  to  the 
letter.  But,  released  from  Amelia's  personal 
supervision,  romantic  little  Susie  led  Eliza 
astray ;  and  the  two  took  a  furtive  and  fearful 
joy  in  seeing  all  they  could  of  the  "goings  on" 
of  the  couple  who  had  boldly  converted  the 
prosaic  Cornish  hotel  into  a  land  of  excite- 
ment and  romance. 


!  74        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

From  the  moment  when  on  the  morning 
after  their  adventure,  Myra,  with  yellow  roses 
in  the  belt  of  her  white  gown,  had  swept  into 
the  coffee-room  at  five  minutes  past  nine, 
saying:  "My  dear  Jim,  have  I  kept  you 
waiting?  I  hope  the  coffee  is  not  cold?" — 
all  life  had  seemed  transformed  to  Miss 
Susie.  Turning  quickly,  she  had  caught  the 
look  Jim  Airth  gave  to  the  lovely  woman  who 
took  her  place  opposite  him  at  his  hitherto 
lonely  table,  and,  still  smiling  into  his  eyes, 
lifted  the  coffee-pot. 

Amelia's  stern  whisper  had  recalled  her  to 
her  senses,  and  prevented  any  further  glancing 
round ;  but  she  had  heard  Myra  say :  "  I  forgot 
your  sugar,  Jim.  One  lump,  or  two?"  and 
Jim  Airth's  reply:  "As  usual,  thanks,  dear," 
not  knowing,  that  with  a  silent  twinkle  of 
fun,  he  laid  an  envelope  over  his  cup,  as  a 
sign  to  Myra,  waiting  with  poised  sugar-tongs, 
that  "as  usual"  meant  no  sugar  at  all! 

Later  on,  when  she  one  day  met  Lady 
Ingleby  alone  in  a  passage,  Miss  Susannah 
ventured  two  hurried  questions. 


GOLDEN  DA  YS  1  75 


"Oh,  tell  me,  my  dear!  Is  it  really  true 
that  you  are  going  to  marry  Mr.  Airth?  And 
have  you  known  him  long?" 

And  Myra  smiling  down  into  Susie's  plump 
anxious  face  replied:  "Well,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  Miss  Susannah,  Jim  Airth  is  going  to 
marry  me.     And  I  cannot  explain  how  long 

I  have  known  him.     I  seem  to  have  known 
him  all  my  life." 

"Ah,"   whispered   Miss   Susannah   with   a 
knowing    smile    of    conscious    perspicacity; 

II  Eliza  and  I  felt  sure  it  was  a  tiff." 

This   remark   appeared   absolutely   incom- 

pr  ible  to  Lady  Ingleby;  and  not  until 

she  h;  I  ed  it  to  Jim,  and  he  had  shouted 

with   laughter,  and  called  her  a  bare-faced 

she  r         •  that  the  "tiff"  was 

•  1  to  have  been  operative  during  the 

•  time   she   and   Jim   Airth   had    sat    at 

sc;  tables,    and    showed    no    signs    of 

uaini 

H<  be  smiled  kindly  into  tl  'ily 

ng    face.     Then,    in    th< 

of  her  own  great  happii  •     ,  envelo]       little 


1 76        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Susie    in    her    beautiful    arms,    and    kissed 
her. 

Miss  Susannah  never  forgot  that  embrace. 
It  was  to  her  a  reflected  realisation  of  what  it 
must  be  to  be  loved  by  Jim  Airth.  And, 
thereafter,  whenever  Miss  Murgatroyd  saw 
fit  to  use  such  adjectives  as  "indecent," 
"questionable,"  or  "highly  improper,"  Miss 
Susie  bravely  gathered  up  her  wool-work, 
and  left  the  room. 

Thus  the  golden  days  went  by,  and  a  letter 
came  for  Jim  Airth  from  Lady  Ingleby's 
secretary.  Her  ladyship  was  away  at  present 
but  would  be  returning  to  Shenstone  on  the 
following  Monday,  and  would  be  pleased  to 
give  him  an  interview  on  Tuesday  afternoon. 
The  two  o'clock  express  from  Charing  Cross 
would  be  met  at  Shenstone  station,  unless  he 
wrote  suggesting  another. 

"Now  that  is  very  civil,"  said  Jim  to  Myra, 
as  he  passed  her  the  letter,  "and  how* well  it 
suits  our  plans.  We  had  already  arranged 
both  to  go  up  to  town  on  Monday,  and  you  on 
to  Shenstone.     So  I  can  come  down  by  that 


GOLDEN  DAYS  177 


two  o'clock  train  on  Tuesday,  get  my  interview 
with  Lady  Ingleby  over  as  quickly  as  may  be, 
and  dash  off  to  my  girl  at  the  Lodge.  I  hope 
to  goodness  she  won't  want  to  give  me  tea!" 

"Which  'she'?"  asked  Myra,  smiling.  "I 
shall  certainly  want  to  give  you  tea." 

"Then  I  shall  decline  Lady  Ingleby 's," 
said  Jim  with  decision. 

Even  during  those  wonderful  days  he  went 
on  steadily  with  his  book,  Myra  sitting  near 
him  in  the  smoking-room,  writing  letters  or 
reading,  while  he  worked.  "  I  do  better  work 
if  you  are  within  reach,  or  at  all  events,  within 
sight,"  Jim  had  said;  and  it  was  impossible 
that  Lady  Ingleby's  mind  should  not  have 
contrasted  the  thrill  of  pleasure  this  gave  her, 
with  the  old  sense  of  being  in  the  way  if  work 
lone;  and  of  being  shut  out  from  the 
chief  in'  of  Michael's  life,  by  the  closing 

of  the  laboratory  door.  Ah,  how  different 
from  the  way  in  which  Jim  already  made  her 

apart  of  himself,  enfolding  her  into  his  every 

interest. 

She  wrote  fully  of  her  happiness  to  Mrs. 


1 78        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Dalmain,  telling  her  in  detail  the  unusual 
happenings  which  had  brought  it  so  rapidly 
to  pass.  Also  a  few  lines  to  her  old  friend  the 
Duchess  of  Meldrum,  merely  announcing  the 
fact  of  her  engagement  and  the  date  of  her 
return  to  Shenstone,  promising  full  particulars 
later.  This  letter  held  also  a  message  for 
Ronald  and  Billy,  should  they  chance  to  be  at 
Overdene. 

Sunday  evening,  their  last  at  Tregarth, 
came  all  too  soon.  They  went  to  the  little 
church  together,  sitting  among  the  simple 
fisher  folk  at  Evensong.  As  they  looked  over 
one  hymn  book,  and  sang  "Eternal  Father, 
strong  to  save,"  both  thought  of  "Davy 
Jones"  in  the  middle  of  the  hymn,  and  had  to 
exchange  a  smile;  yet  with  an  instant  added 
reverence  of  petition  and  thanksgiving. 

"Thus  evermore,  shall  rise  to  Thee, 
Glad  hymns  of  praise  from  land  and  sea." 

Jim  Airth's  big  bass  boomed  through  the 
little  church ;  and  Myra,  close  to  his  shoulder, 


GOLDEN  DAYS  179 


sang  with  a  face  so  radiant  that  none  could 
doubt  the  reality  of  her  praise. 

Then  back  to  a  cold  supper  at  the  Moor- 
head  Inn;  after  which  they  strolled  out  to  the 
honeysuckle  arbour  for  Jim's  evening  pipe, 
and  a  last  quiet  talk. 

It  was  then  that  Jim  Airth  said,  suddenly: 
"By  the  way  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  more 
about  Lady  Ingleby.  What  kind  of  a  woman 
is  she?     Easy  to  talk  to?  " 

For  a  moment  Myra  was  taken  a- 
back.  "Why,  Jim — I  hardly  know.  Easy? 
Yes,  I  think  you  will  find  her  easy  to  talk 
to." 

"Does  she  speak  of  her  husband's  death, 
or  is  it  a  tabooed  subject? " 

"She  speaks  of  it,"  said  Myra,  softly, 
"to  those  who  can  understand." 

"Ah!    Do  you  suppose  she  will  like  to  hear 

r  those  la  it  day  ;?" 

"  i'        ly;  if  you  feel  h.  to  give  them. 

Jim  iU  know  who  did  it?" 

A    surpi  ileno    in   tl        rb<  kit.    Jim 

ren,  his  pipe,  ■  1  at  1. 


1 80        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

»  — — — — ^— — ^— — >^« 

"Do  I  know — who — did — what?"  he  asked 
slowly. 

"Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  man  who 
made  the  mistake  which  killed  Lord  Ingleby?  " 

Jim  returned  his  pipe  to  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  do,"  he  said,  quietly.  "But 
how  came  you  to  know  of  the  blunder?  I 
thought  the  whole  thing  was  hushed  up,  at 
home." 

"It  was,"  said  Myra;  "but  Lady  Ingleby 
was  told,  and  I  heard  it  then.  Jim,  if  she 
asked  you  the  name,  should  you  tell  her?" 

"Certainly  I  should,"  replied  Jim  Airth. 
"I  was  strongly  opposed,  from  the  first,  to 
any  mystery  being  made  about  it.  I  hate  a 
hushing-up  policy.  But  there  was  the  fellow's 
future  to  consider.  The  world  never  lets  a 
thing  of  that  sort  drop.  He  would  always 
have  been  pointed  out  as  'The  chap  who  killed 
Ingleby' — just  as  if  he  had  done  it  on  purpose; 
and  every  man  of  us  knew  that  would  be  a 
millstone  round  the  neck  of  any  career.  And 
then  the  whole  business  had  been  somewhat 
irregular;  and  'the  powers  that  be'  have  a 


GOLDEN  DAYS  181 


way  of  taking  all  the  kudos,  if  experiments  are 
successful;  and  making  a  what-on-earth-were- 
you-dreaming-of  row,  if  they  chance  to  be  a 
failure.  Hence  the  fact  that  we  are  all  such 
stick-in-the-muds,  in  the  sendee.  Nobody 
dares  be  original.  The  risks  are  too  great, 
and  too  astonishingly  unequal.  If  you  suc- 
ceed, you  get  a  D.  S.  O.  from  a  grateful 
government,  and  a  laurel  crown  from  an 
admiring  nation.  If  you  fail,  an  indignant 
populace  derides  your  name,  and  a  pained  and 
astonished  government  claps  you  into  jail. 
That  's  not  the  way  to  encourage  progress, 
or  m;  Hows  prompt  to  take  the  initiative. 

e  right  or  the  wrong  of  an  action  should  not 
tennined  by  its  success  or  failure." 
ly   Ingleby's   mind    had    pau  t    the 

inning  of  Jim's  tirade. 
They    could    not    have    taken    Michael's 

los,"    she    Bai        "It    must    hav 

'.     II«-  was  always  most  i         il  to 

.  .  j  . 

"i  dd  y.-i\  Airth.     "Oh,  I 

'Kudo  ,'  my  ->•';    not  a 


182        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

new  kind  of  explosive.     And  why  do  you  call 
Lord  Ingleby  'Michael'?" 

"I  knew  him  intimately,"  said  Lady 
Ingleby. 

"I  see.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  protested 
about  the  hushing  up,  but  was  talked  over; 
and  the  few  who  knew  the  facts  pledged  their 
word  of  honour  to  keep  silence.  Only,  the 
name  was  to  be  given  to  Lady  Ingleby,  if  she 
desired  to  know  it;  and  some  of  us  thought 
you  might  as  well  put  it  in  The  Times  at 
once,  as  tell  a  woman.  Then  we  heard  she  had 
decided  not  to  know." 

"What  do  you  think  of  her  decision?" 
asked  Lady  Ingleby. 

"I  think  it  proved  her  to  be  a  very  just- 
minded  woman,  and  a  very  unusual  one,  if 
she  keeps  to  it.  But  it  would  be  rather  like  a 
woman,  to  make  a  fine  decision  such  as  that 
during  the  tension  of  a  supreme  moment,  and 
then  indulge  in  private  speculation  after 
wards." 

"Did  you  hear  her  reason,  Jim?  She 
said    she  did  not  wish   that  a   man  should 


GOLDEN  DAYS  183 


walk  this  earth,  whose  hand  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  touch  in  friendship." 

"Poor  loyal  soul!"  I  Jim  Airth,  greatly 
mow  1 .  "  2\  I yra,  if  /  got  accidentally  done  for, 
as  Ingleby  was, — should  you  feel  so,  for  my 
safe 

"No!"  cried  Myra,  passionately.  "If  I 
lost  you,  my  beloved,  I  should  never  want  to 
touch  any  other  man's  hand,  in  friendship  or 
otherwise,  as  long  as  I  lived!" 

."  mused  Jim  Airth.     "Then  you  don't 
consid  !  y  I  ngleby '  s  reason  for  her  decision 

proved  a  I  ve  such  as  our. 

Myra  laid  her  beautiful  head  against  his 
shoul<  I 

she  said,  brokenly,  "I  do   not  feel 
myself  competent  to  discuss  any  other  love. 
One    thing    only    is    clear    to    me: — I    n< 
1  what  love  meant,  until  I  knew  y< 

A  ur. 

Then  Jim  Airth  cried  all       '  the 

man  in  his  arms:   "Can  !ly  think 

you  h.  ;ht  to 

for  a 


",84        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

And  she  who  loved  him  with  a  love  beyond 
expression  could  frame  no  words  in  answer 
to  that  question.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that, 
in  the  days  to  come,  it  was  there,  unanswered; 
ready  to  return  and  beat  upon  her  brain  with 
merciless  reiteration:  "Was  I  right  to  keep 
him  waiting,  even  for  a  day." 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

In  the  hall,  beside  the  marble  table,  where 
lay  the  visitors'  book,  they  paused  to  say 
good-night.  From  the  first,  Myra  had  never 
allowed  him  up  the  stairs  until  her  door  was 
closed.  "If  you  don't  keep  the  rules  I  think 
it  right  to  make,  Jim,"  she  had  said,  with  her 
little  tender  smile,  "I  shall,  in  self-defence, 
engage  Miss  Murgatroyd  as  chaperon;  and 
what  sort  of  a  time  would  you  have  then?  " 

So  Jim  was  pledged  to  remain  below  until 
her  door  had  been  shut  five  minutes.  After 
which  he  used  to  tramp  up  the  stairs  whistling: 

"A  long  long  life,  to  my  sweet  wife, 
And  mates  at  sea; 
And  keep  our  bones  from  Davy  Jones, 

Where'er  we  be. 
And  may  you  meet  a  mate  as  sweet " 


GOLDEN  DAYS  185 


Then  his  door  would  bang,  and  Myra 
would  venture  to  give  vent  to  her  sup- 
pressed laughter,  and  to  sing  a  soft  little 

"  Yco  ho !  we  go !— Yeo  ho !  Yeo  ho !" 

for  sheer  overflowing  happiness. 

But  this  was  the  last  evening.  A  parting 
impended.  Also  there  had  been  tense  mo- 
ments in  the  honeysuckle  arbour. 

Jim's  blue  eyes  were  mutinous.  He  stood 
holding  her  hands  against  his  breast,  as  he  had 
done  in  Horseshoe  Cove,  when  the  waves 
swept  round  their  feet,  and  he  had  cried: 
"You  must  climb!" 

"So  to-morrow  night,"  he  said,  "you  will 
be  at  the  Lodge,  Shenstone;  and  I,  at  my  Club 
in  town.     Do  you  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
away  from  you,  even  for  an  hour?     Do  you 
that  if  you  had  not  been  so  obstinate 
never  need  have  been  parted  at  all?    We 
ild  have  g<  a  from  here,  husband  and 

ether.     If  you  had  really  carol,  you 
iM  n't  hav<  I  to  wail ." 

M         miled  up  into  hi  i  yes. 


186        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"Jim,"  she  whispered,  "it  is  so  silly  to  say: 
1  If  you  had  really  cared' ;  because  you  know, 
perfectly  well,  that  I  care  for  you,  more 
than  any  woman  in  the  world  has  ever  cared 
for  any  man  before!  And  I  do  assure  you, 
Jim,  that  you  could  n't  have  married  me 
validly  from  here — and  think  how  awful  it 
would  be,  to  love  as  much  as  we  love  and  then 
find  out  that  we  were  not  validly  married — ■ 
and  when  you  come  to  my  home,  and  fetch 
me  away  from  there,  you  will  admit — yes 
really  admit — that  I  was  right.  You  will 
have  to  apologise  humbly  for  having  said 
'Bosh!'  so  often.  Jim — dearest!  Look  at 
the  clock !  I  must  go.  Poor  Miss  Murgatroyd 
will  grow  so  tired  of  listening  for  us.  She 
always  leaves  her  door  a  crack  open.  So 
does  Miss  Susannah.  They  have  all  taken  to 
sleeping  with  their  doors  ajar.  I  deftly  led 
the  conversation  round  to  riddles  yesterday, 
when  I  was  alone  with  them  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  asked  sternly:  'When  is  a  door,  not  a 
door?'  They  all  answered:  'When  it  is  a  jar!' 
quite  unabashed;  and  Miss  Eliza  asked  an- 


GOLDEN  DAYS  187 


other!  I  believe  Susie  stands  at  her  crack,  in 
the  darkness,  in  hopes  of  seeing  you  march  by. 
.  .  .  No,  don't  say  naughty  words.  They  are 
dears,  all  three  of  them ;  and  we  shall  miss  them 
horribly  to-morrow.  Oh,  Jim — I  've  just  had 
such  a  brilliant  idea!  I  shall  ask  them  to  be 
my  bridesmaids!  Can't  you  see  them  follow- 
ing me  up  the  aisle?  It  would  be  worse  than 
the  duchess  giving  Jane  away.  Ah,  you  don't 
know  that  story?  I  will  tell  it  you,  some  day. 
Jim,  say  'Good-night'  quickly,  and  let  me  go." 

"Once,"  said  Jim  Airth,  tightening  his  grasp 
on  her  wrists — "once,  Myra,  we  said  no 
4good-nigh>  I  no  'good-morning.' " 

"Jim, darling !"  said  .Myra,  gently;  "on  that 
hi,  before  I  went  to  si  I  to  me: 

'V,         •  not  .  God  is  Jirrr.'    And  then 

you  rep-  I  part  of  the  hue  Ired  and  thirty- 
ninth  psalm.     An  1,  Jim — I  thought  you  ti 

I  ir  known; 

I  felt  that,  uld  trust  you,  ..     I 

Jim  Airth  loosed  the  hands  he  had  held  so 
tightl;  tly.     "  ( iiw*l_ 


188        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

night,  my  sweetheart,"  he  said,  "and  God 
bless  you!"  Then  he  turned  away  to  the 
marble  table. 

Myra  ran  swiftly  up  the  stairs  and  closed 
her  door. 

Then  she  knelt  beside  her  bed,  and  sobbed 
uncontrollably;  partly  for  joy,  and  partly  for 
sorrow.  The  unanswered  question  com- 
menced its  reiteration:  "Ah,  was  I  right  to 
keep  him  waiting?  " 

Presently  she  lifted  her  head,  held  her 
breath,  and  stared  into  the  darkness.  A 
vision  seemed  to  pass  across  her  room.  A 
tall,  bearded  man,  in  evening  clothes.  In  his 
arms  a  tiny  dog,  peeping  at  her  through  its 
curls,  as  if  to  say:  "/  have  the  better  place. 
Where  do  you  come  in?"  The  tall  man 
turned  at  the  door.  "Good-night,  my  dear 
Myra,"  he  said,  kindly. 

The  vision  passed. 

Lady  Ingleby  buried  her  face  in  the  bed- 
clothes. "That — for  ten  long  years!"  she 
said.  Then,  in  the  darkness,  she  saw  the 
mutinous  fire  of  Jim  Airth's  blue  eyes,  and 


GOLDEN  DAYS  189 

felt  the  grip  of  his  strong  hands  on  hers. 
"How  can  I  say  'Good-night'?"  protested  his 
deep  voice,  passionately.  And,  with  a  rush 
of  happy  tears,  Myra  clasped  her  hands, 
whispering:  "Dear  God,  am  I  at  last  to  know 
the  Best?" 

And  up  the  stairs  came  Jim  Airth,  whistling 
like  a  nightingale.  But,  as  a  concession  to 
Miss  Murgatroyd's  ideas  concerning  suitable 
Sabbath  music,  he  discarded  "Nancy  Lee," 
and  whistled: 

u  Eternal  Father,  strong  to  save, 
Whose  arm  hath  bound  the  restless  wave; 

mighty  ocean  deep, 
Its  own  appointed  limits  keep, 
O  hear  us,  when  we  cry  to  Thee " 

ad,  kneeling  beside  her  bed,  in  the  dark- 
;,  Myra  made  of  it  her  evening  pray' 


CHAPTER  XV 

"where  is  lady  ingleby?" 

\  A7HEN  Jim  Airth  left  the  train  on  the  fol- 
lowing Tuesday  afternoon,  he  looked 
eagerly  up  and  down  the  platform,  hoping  to 
see  Myra.  True,  they  had  particularly  ar- 
ranged not  to  meet,  until  after  his  interview 
with  Lady  Ingleby.  But  Myra  was  so  charm- 
ingly inconsequent  and  impulsive  in  her 
actions.  It  would  be  quite  like  her  to  reverse 
the  whole  plan  they  had  made;  and,  if  her 
desire  to  see  him,  in  any  measure  resembled 
his  huge  hunger  for  a  sight  of  her,  he  could 
easily  understand  such  a  reversal. 

However,  Myra  was  not  there;  and  with  a 
heavy  sense  of  unreasonable  disappointment, 
Jim   Airth  chucked  his  ticket  to   a  waiting 

porter,  passed  through  the  little  station,  and 

190 


"  WHERE  IS  LADY  INGLEBY  ?  "        191 


found  a  smart  turn-out,  with  tandem  ponies, 
waiting  outside. 

The  groom  at  the  leader's  head  touched  his 
hat. 

"For  Shenstone  Park,  sir?" 

"Yes,"    said     Jim     Airth,     and     climbed 

in. 

The  groom  touched  his  hat  again.  "Her 
ladyship  said,  sir,  that  perhaps  you  might 
like  to  drive  the  ponies  yourself,  sir." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Jim  Airth,  shortly. 
"I  r  drive  other  people's  ponies." 

The  groom's  comprehending  grin  was  im- 
rri'  suppressed.     He  touched  his  hat 

again;  gathered  up  the  reins,   mounted  the 
dr  ked    the    leader,    and    the 

Ctly  matched  ponies  swung  at  once  into 
trot. 
Jim  Airth,  a  connoisseur  in  horse-flesh,  eyed 
them  with     •    ►roval.    They  flew  along  the 
n,-  lanes,  es  of  wild 

and  clematis.     ThevilL  work- 

ing  in   the  hay  .     houting  gaily  to  one 

y  tossed   the  hay.     It  was  a 


192        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

matchless  June  day,  in  a  perfect  English 
summer. 

Jim  Airth's  disappointment  at  Myra's  non- 
appearance, was  lifting  rapidly  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  drive.  After  all  it  was  best  to 
adhere  to  plans  once  made;  and  every  step  of 
these  jolly  little  tapping  hoofs  was  bringing 
him  nearer  to  the  Lodge.  Perhaps  she  would 
be  at  the  window.  (He  had  particularly  told 
her  not  to  be!) 

11  These  ponies  have  been  well  handled," 
he  remarked  approvingly  to  the  groom,  as 
they  flew  round  a  bend. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  groom,  with  the  in- 
evitable movement  towards  his  hat,  whip 
and  hand  going  up  together.  "Her  lady- 
ship always  drives  them  herself,  sir.  Fine 
whip,  her  ladyship,  sir." 

This  item  of  information  surprised  Jim 
Airth.  Judging  by  Lord  Ingleby's  age  and 
appearance,  he  had  expected  to  find  Lady 
Ingleby  a  sedate  and  stately  matron  of  sixty. 
It  was  somewhat  surprising  to  hear  of  her 
as  a  fine  whip. 


"  WHERE  IS  LADY  INGLEBY?  "        193 

However,  he  had  no  time  to  weigh  the 
matter  further.  Passing  an  ivy-clad  church 
on  the  village  green,  they  swung  through 
massive  iron  gates,  of  very  fine  design,  and 
entered  the  stately  avenue  of  Shenstone 
Park.  To  the  left,  in  a  group  of  trees,  stood 
a  pretty  little  gabled  house. 

"What  house  is  that?"  asked  Jim  Airth, 
quickly. 

"The  Lodge,  sir." 

"Who  lives  there?" 

"Mrs.  O'Mara,  sir." 

"Has  Mrs.  O'Mara  returned?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  She  was  up  at  the 
house  with  her  ladyship  this  morning." 

"Then  she  has  returned,"  said  Jim  Airth. 

The  groom  looked  perplexed,  but  made  no 
<    :nment. 

Jim  Airth  turned  in  his  scat,  and  lool  I 
back  at  the  Lodge.  It  was  a  far  smaller 
hoi         an  he  had  expected.    This  fact  did  not 

l  to  depn        him.      He  smiled  to  himself, 
as  at  some  thought  which  e  him  amuse- 

ment and  pleasure.    While   he  still   looked 

1 I 


194        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


back,  a  side  door  opened;  a  neatly  dressed 
woman  in  black,  apparently  a  superior  lady's- 
maid,  appeared  on  the  doorstep,  shook  out  a 
white  table-cloth,  and  re-entered  the  house. 

They  flew  on  up  the  avenue,  Jim  Airth 
noting  every  tree  with  appreciation  and 
pleasure.  The  fine  old  house  came  into  view, 
and  a  moment  later  they  drew  up  at  the 
entrance. 

"Good  driving,"  remarked  Jim  Airth 
approvingly,  as  he  tipped  the  little  groom. 
Then  he  turned,  to  find  the  great  doors 
already  standing  wide,  and  a  stately  butler, 
with  immense  black  eyebrows,  waiting  to 
receive  him. 

"Will  you  come  to  her  ladyship's  sitting- 
room,  sir?"  said  the  butler,  and  led  the  way. 

Jim  Airth  entered  a  charmingly  appointed 
room,  and  looked  around. 

It  was  empty. 

"Kindly  wait  here,  sir,  while  I  acquaint 
her  ladyship  with  your  arrival,"  said  the 
pompous  person  with  the  eyebrows,  and  went 
out  noiselessly,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 


««  ur 


WHERE  IS  LADY  INGLEBY?  "        195 

Left  alone,  Jim  Airth  commenced  taking 
rapid  note  of  the  room,  hoping  to  gain  there- 
from some  ideas  as  to  the  tastes  and  character 
of  its  possessor.  But  almost  immediately  his 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  life-size  portrait  of 
Lord  Ingleby,  hanging  above  the  mantelpiece. 

Jim  Airth  walked  over  to  the  hearthrug,  and 
stood  long,  looking  with  silent  intentness  at 
the  picture. 

"Excellent,"  he  said  to  himself,  at  last. 
"Extraordinarily  clever.  That  chap  shall 
paint  Myra,  if  I  can  lay  hands  on  him.  What 
a  jolly  little  dog !  And  what  devotion !  Mutual 
and  absorbing.  I  suppose  that  is  Peter. 
Queer  to  think  that  I  should  have  been  the  last 
to  hear  him  calling  Peter.  I  wonder  whether 
Ingleby  liked  Peter.  If  not,  I  doubt 
ould  have  had  much  of  a  look-in.  If 
an;  nt  to  the  wall  it  certainly  wasn't 

IT  bed  in  the  pictui        ten 

th«  '  returned  with  a  long    i 

oly  delh 
"Her  I  "nt  in  the  grounds,  sir. 


196       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

As  it  is  so  warm  in  the  house,  sir,  her  ladyship 
requests  that  you  come  to  her  in  the  grounds. 
If  you  will  allow  me,  sir,  I  will  show  you  the 
way." 

Jim  Airth  restrained  an  inclination  to  say: 
"Buck  up!"  and  followed  the  butler  along  a 
corridor,  down  a  wide  staircase  to  a  lower 
hall.  They  stepped  out  on  to  a  terrace  run- 
ning the  full  length  of  the  house.  Below 
it,  an  old-fashioned  garden,  with  box  borders, 
bright  flower  beds,  a  fountain  in  the  centre. 
Beyond  this  a  smooth  lawn,  sloping  down  to  a 
beautiful  lake,  which  sparkled  and  gleamed 
in  the  afternoon  sunshine.  On  this  lawn, 
well  to  the  right,  half-way  between  the  house 
and  the  water,  stood  a  group  of  beeches. 
Beneath  their  spreading  boughs,  in  the  cool 
inviting  shadow,  were  some  garden  chairs. 
Jim  Airth  could  just  discern,  in  one  of  these, 
the  white  gown  of  a  woman,  holding  a  scarlet 
parasol. 

The  butler  indicated  this  clump  of  trees. 

"Her  ladyship  said,  sir,  that  she  woul4 
await  you  under  the  beeches." 


"  WHERE  IS  LADY  INGLEBY ?  "        197 

He  returned  to  the  house,  and  Jim  Airth 
was  left  to  make  his  way  alone  to  Lady 
Ingleby,  guided  by  the  gleam  among  the  trees 
of  her  brilliant  parasol.  Even  at  that  mo- 
ment it  gave  him  pleasure  to  find  Lady 
Ingleby's  taste  in  sunshades,  resembling 
Myra's. 

He  stood  for  a  minute  on  the  terrace,  taking 
in  the  matchless  beauty  of  the  place.  Then 
his  face  grew  sad  and  stern.  "What  a  home 
to  leave,"  he  said;  "and  to  leave  it,  never  to 
return!" 

He  still  wore  a  look  of  sadness  as  he  de- 
scended the  steps  leading  to  the  flower  garden, 
made  his  way  along  the  narrow  gravel  paths; 
then  stepped  on  to  the  soft  turf  of  the  lawn, 
and  walked  towards  the  clump  of  1  •  S. 

Jim     Airth  —  tall     and     soldierly,    broad- 

shoul  !•  :•  1  and  erect — might  h;         made  an 

•  imp-  a  upon  Lady  Ingleby,  had 

sh<  i  coming.     But  she  kept  her 

asol  If  and  her  approachii 

I :.  quite  near;  n<  to 


198        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

distinguish  the  ripples  of  soft  lace  about  her 
feet,  the  long  graceful  sweep  of  her  gown;  and 
still  she  seemed  unconscious  of  his  close 
proximity. 

He  passed  beneath  the  beeches  and  stood 
before  her.  And,  even  then,  the  parasol 
concealed  her  face. 

But  Jim  Airth  was  never  at  a  loss,  when  sure 
of  his  ground.  "Lady  Ingleby,"  he  said, 
with  grave  formality;  "I  was  told  to " 

Then  the  parasol  was  flung  aside,  and  he 
found  himself  looking  down  into  the  lovely 
laughing  eyes  of  Myra. 

To  see  Jim  Airth's  face  change  from  its 
look  of  formal  gravity  to  one  of  rapturous 
delight,  was  to  Myra  well  worth  the  long  effort 
of  sitting  immovable.  He  flung  himself  down 
before  her  with  boyish  abandon,  and  clasped 
both  herself  and  her  chair  in  his  long  arms. 

"Oh,  you  darling! "  he  said,  bending  his  face 
over  hers,  while  his  blue  eyes  danced  with 
delight.  "Oh,  Myra,  what  centuries  since 
yesterday!  How  I  have  longed  for  you.  I 
almost  hoped  you  would  after  all  have  come 


"  WHERE  IS  LADY  INGLEBY?  "        199 

to  the  station.  How  I  have  grudged  wasting 
all  this  time  in  coming  to  call  on  old  Lady 
Ingleby.  Myra,  has  it  seemed  long  to  you? 
Do  yea  realise,  my  dear  girl,  that  it  can't  go 
on  any  longer;  that  we  cannot  possibly  live 
through  another  twenty-four  hours  of  separa- 
tion? But  oh,  you  Tease!  There  was  I,  ramping 
with  impatience  at  every  wasted  moment; 
and  here  were  you,  sitting  under  this  tree, 
hiding  your  face  and  pretending  to  be  Lady 
Ingleby!  The  astonished  and  astonishing  old 
party  in  the  ewbrows,  certainly  pointed  you 
out  a  Lady  Ingleby  when  he  started  me  i 
on  my  pilgrimage.  I  say,  how  lovely  you 
look!  What  billowy  softness!  It  wouldn't 
do  for  cliff-climbing;  but  i:  i  A.i.  for  sitting 
on  lawns.  ...     I  can't  help  it!    I  must!" 

"Jim."      id   Myra,  lav.  and  pushing 

hi:  -.y;  "what  has  come  i,  you  dear. 

old  b         You  will  really  have  to  behat    I 

t  in  the  honeysuckle  arbour.     'The 
rty  in  th< 
likdy  observi  i  a  window,  and  will 

'.  if  h< 


200        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

you  'carrying  on'  in  such  a  manner.  Jim, 
how  nice  you  look  in  your  town  clothes.  I 
always  like  a  grey  frock-coat.  Stand  up,  and 
let  me  see.  .  .  .  Oh,  look  at  the  green  of  the 
turf  on  those  immaculate  knees!  What  a 
pity.     Did  you  don  all  this  finery  for  me?" 

"Of  course  not,  silly!"  said  Jim  Airth, 
rubbing  his  knees  vigorously.  "When  I  haul 
you  up  cliffs,  I  wear  old  Norfolk  coats;  and 
when  I  duck  you  in  the  sea,  I  wear  flannels.  I 
considered  this  the  correct  attire  in  which  to 
pay  a  formal  call  on  Lady  Ingleby;  and  now, 
before  she  has  had  a  chance  of  being  duly 
impressed  by  it,  I  have  spoilt  my  knees  hope- 
lessly, worshipping  at  your  shrine!  Where  is 
Lady  Ingleby?  Why  does  n't  she  keep  her 
appointments?" 

"Jim,"  said  Myra,  looking  up  at  him  with 
eyes  full  of  unspeakable  love,  yet  dancing 
with  excitement  and  delight;  "Jim,  do  you 
admire  this  place?" 

"This  place?"  cried  Jim,  stepping  back  a 
pace,  so  as  to  command  a  good  view  of  the 
lake  and  woods  beyond.     "It  is  absolutely 


"  WHERE  IS  LADY  INGLEBY?  "       201 

perfect.  We  have  nothing  like  this  in  Scot- 
land. You  can't  beat  for  all  round  beauty  a 
real  old  mellow  lived-in  English  country 
seat;  especially  when  you  get  a  twenty  acre 
lake,  with  islands  and  swans,  all  complete. 
And  I  suppose  the  woods  beyond,  as  far  as  one 
can  see,  belong  to  the  Inglebys — or  rather,  to 
Lady  Ingleby.  What  a  pity  there  is  no 
son." 

"Jim,"  said  Myra,  "I  have  so  looked  for- 
ward to  showing  you  my  home." 

He  stepped  close  to  her  at  once.  "Then 
show  it  to  me,  dear,"  he  said.  "I  would 
rather  be  alone  with  you  in  your  own  little 
home — I  saw  it,  as  we  drove  up — than  wait- 
ing about,  in  this  vast  expanse  of  beauty,  for 
Lady  Ingleby." 

"Ji::.,"  said  Myra,  "do  you  remember  a 
little  tune  I  often  hummed  down  in  Cornwall; 
and,  when  you  asked  me  what  it  was,  I  said 
you  should  hear  the  words  s 

Jim  looked  puzzled.  "Really  dear — you 
hu-  I  so  many  little  tunes    - 

"<  >';:,  I  1  Myra;  "and  I  have  not 


202        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

much    ear.     But    this   was   very    special.     I 
want  to  sing  it  to  you  now.     Listen! " 

And  looking  up  at  him,  her  soft  eyes  full 
of  love,  Myra  sang,  with  slight  alterations  of 
her  own,  the  last  verse  of  the  old  Scotch 
ballad,  ' '  Huntingtower. ' ' 

"  Blair  in  Athol  's  mine,  Jamie, 
Fair  Dunkeld  is  mine,  laddie; 
Saint  Johnstoun's  bower, 
And  Huntingtower, 
And  all  that  's  mine,  is  thine,  laddie." 

"Very  pretty,"  said  Jim,  "but  you've 
mixed  it,  my  dear.  Jamie  bestowed  all  his 
possessions  on  the  lassie.  You  sang  it  the 
wrong  way  round." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Myra,  eagerly.  "There 
is  no  wrong  way  round.  Providing  they  both 
love,  it  does  not  really  matter  which  gives. 
The  one  who  happens  to  possess,  bestows.  If 
you  were  a  cowboy,  Jim,  and  you  loved  a 
woman  with  lands  and  houses,  in  taking  her, 
you  would  take  all  that  was  hers." 

"I  guess  I  'd  take  her  out  to  my  ranch 


"  WHERE  IS  LADY  INGLEBY?  "        203 

and  teach  her  to  milk  cows,"  laughed  Jim 
Airth.  Then  turning  about  under  the  tree 
and  looking  in  all  directions:     "But  seriously, 

yra,  where  is  Lady  Ingleby?     She  should 

p    her  appointments.     We  cannot    waste 

our  whole  afternoon  waiting  here.     I  want 

my  girl ;  and  I  want  her  in  her  own  little  home, 

alone.     Cannot  we  find  Lady  Ingleby?" 

Then  Myra  rose,  radiant,  and  came  and 
stood  before  him.  The  sunbeams  shone 
through  the  beech  leaves  and  danced  in  her 
grey  She    had    never    looked     more 

perfect    in   her   i  loveliness.     The   man 

took  it  all   in,   and  the  glory  of  possession 

iited  his  handsome  fa< 

She  came  and  'ore  him,  laying  her 

hands    upon    hi  H<     wrapped    his 

arms    lightly  He    s:iw    she    had 

;  '     1. 

"Jin  Myra,  .     Tl 

I  wain  ian  any 

; 
Then  I    hall  '  i  at.     I  v.  nave  the 

lit  to  '        tiled  '  i  ■■ 


204        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

more  than  all  else  beside,  to  be  your  wife. 
But — until  I  am  that ;  and  may  it  be  very  soon ! 
until  you  make  me  'Mrs.  Jim  Airth' — dearest 
— / — am  Lady  Ingleby." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

UNDER  THE  BEECHES  AT  SHENSTONE 

TIM  AIRTH'S  arms  fell  slowly  to  his  sides. 
He  still  looked  into  those  happy,  loving 
os,  but  the  joy  in  his  own  died  out,  leaving 
them  merely  cold  blue  steel.     His  face  slowly 
whit-  hardened,  froze  into  lines  of  silent 

misen'.     Then  he  moved  back  a  step,  and 
Myra's  hands  fell  from  him. 
"  You— 'Lady  Ingleby'?"  he  said. 
Myra  gazed  at  him,  in  unspeakable  dismay. 
"Jim!"    she  cried,   "Jim,  it!       Why 

should  you  mind  it  so  much?" 

•    I  forward,  and  tried    to  take  his 

"Don't  touch  me!  "he  said,  sharply.    Th< 
"  You,  Myra?  You!  Lord  [nglel         jridow?" 
The  fur.  ryof  his  \  Myra, 


206        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Why  should  he  resent  the  noble  name  she  bore, 
the  high  rank  which  was  hers?  Even  if  it 
placed  her  socially  far  above  him,  had  she 
not  just  expressed  her  readiness — her  longing 
— to  resign  all,  for  him?  Had  not  her  love 
already  placed  him  on  the  topmost  pinnacle 
of  her  regard?  Was  it  generous,  was  it 
worthy  of  Jim  Airth  to  take  her  disclosure 
thus? 

She  moved  towards  the  chairs,  with  gentle 
dignity. 

"Let  us  sit  down,  Jim,  and  talk  it  over," 
she  said,  quietly.  "I  do  not  think  you  need 
find  it  so  overwhelming  a  matter  as  you  seem 
to  imagine.  Let  me  tell  you  all  about  it; 
or  rather,  suppose  you  ask  me  any  questions 
you  like." 

Jim  Airth  sat  blindly  down  upon  the  chair 
farthest  from  her,  put  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  sank  his  face  into  his  hands. 

Without  any  comment,  Myra  rose;  moved 
her  chair  close  enough  to  enable  her  to  lay 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  should  she  wish  to 
do  so;  sat  down  again,  and  waited  in  silence. 


UNDER  THE  BEECHES  AT  SHENSTONE  207 

Jim  Airth  had  but  one  question  to  ask. 
He  asked  it,  without  lifting  his  head. 
"Who  is  Mrs.  O'Mara?" 

"She  is  the  widow  of  Sergeant  O'Mara  who 
1  at  Targai.     We  both  lost  our  husbands  in 
that  disaster,  Jim.     She  had  been  for  many- 
years  my  maid-attendant.     When  she  married 
the  sergeant,   a    fine  soldier  whom   Michael 
held  in  high  esteem,  I  wished  still  to  keep  her 
near  me.     Michael  had  given  me  the  Lodge 
to  do  with  as  I  pleased.     I  put  them  into  it. 
She  lives  there  still.     Oh,  Jim  dearest,  try  to 
llise  that  I  have  not  said  one  word  to  you 
which  was  not  complete! y  truthful!     Let  me 
plain  1  came  to  be  in  Cornwall  under 

I  of  my  own.     If  I  might  put 
my  han  Jim,  I  could  re 

ly.  .  .  .     No? 
[  received  1 
r  telling  me  of  my  husl  rh,  I  had  a 

xw.     I    do    !    * 
think  it  I  so  nr 

:i,  which  had  ]  •     ■ 
it. 


208        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

getting  better,  full  details  arrived,  and  I  had 
to  be  told  that  it  had  been  an  accident.  You 
know  all  about  the  question  as  to  whether 
I  should  hear  the  name  or  not.  You  also 
know  my  decision.  The  worry  of  this  threw 
me  back.  What  you  said  in  the  arbour  was 
perfectly  true.  I  am  a  woman,  Jim;  often, 
a  weak  one;  and  I  was  very  much  alone.  I 
decided  rightly,  in  a  supreme  moment — - 
possibly  you  may  know  who  it  was  who 
graciously  undertook  to  bring  me  the  news 
from  the  War  Office — but,  afterwards,  I 
began  to  wonder;  I  allowed  myself  to  guess. 
Men  from  the  front  came  home.  My  sur- 
misings  circled  ceaselessly  around  two — dear 
fellows,  of  whom  I  was  really  fond.  At  last 
I  felt  convinced  I  knew,  by  intangible  yet 
unmistakable  signs,  which  was  he  who  had 
done  it.  I  grew  quite  sure.  And  then — I 
hardly  know  how  to  tell  you,  Jim — of  all 
impossible  horrors !  The  man  who  had  killed 
Michael  wanted  to  marry  me! — Oh,  don't 
groan,  darling;  you  make  me  so  unhappy! 
But  I  do  not  wonder  you  find  it  difficult  to 


UNDER  THE  BEECHES  AT  SHENSTONE  209 

believe.  He  cared  very  much,  poor  boy;  and 
I  suppose  he  thought  that,  as  I  should  remain 
in  ignorance,  the  fact  need  not  matter.  It 
seems  hard  to  understand;  but  a  man  in  love 
sometimes  loses  all  sense  of  proportion — at 
least  so  I  once  heard  someone  say ;  or  words  to 
that  effect.  I  did  not  allow  it  ever  to  reach 
the  point  of  an  actual  proposal;  but  I  felt  I 
must  flee  away.  There  were  others — and 
it  was  terrible  to  me.  I  loved  none  of  them; 
and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  never  to  marry 
again  unless  I  found  my  ideal.     Oh,  Jim!" 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  knee.  It  might 
have  been  a  falling  leaf,  for  all  the  sign  he 
gave.    She  left  it  there,  and  went  on  speaking. 

' '  People  gossiped.  Society  papers  contained 
constant  trying  paragraphs.   Even  my  widow's 

died  and  copied.  My  nerves 
.    Life  see  Lurable. 

•   I  consulted  a  great  specialist,  who 

Iso  a  tru  L    II<-  ord         me  a 

t-cure.     Not   to   be   shut   up   within    four 
walls  with  my  own  worri   .     it  to  go  ri.^ht 

entity,         all 


2 1 0        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

appertaining  thereto,  completely  behind;  to 
go  to  a  place  to  which  I  had  never  before  been, 
where  I  knew  no  one,  and  should  not  be 
known;  to  live  in  the  open  air;  fare  sim- 
ply; rise  early,  retire  early;  but,  above 
all,  as  he  quaintly  said:  'Leave  Lady  Ingleby 
behind.' 

"I  followed  his  advice  to  the  letter.  He  is 
not  a  man  one  can  disobey.  I  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  taking  a  fictitious  name,  so  I  decided 
to  be  'Mrs.  O'Mara,'  and  naturally  entered 
her  address  in  the  visitors'  book,  as  well  as  her 
name. 

"Oh,  that  evening  of  arrival!  You  were 
quite  right,  Jim.  I  felt  just  a  happy  child, 
entering  a  new  world  of  beauty  and  delight — 
all  holiday  and  rest. 

"And  then — I  saw  you!  And,  oh  my 
beloved,  I  think  almost  from  the  first  moment 
my  soul  flew  to  you,  as  to  its  unquestioned 
mate!  Your  vitality  became  my  source  of 
vigour;  your  strength  filled  and  upheld  every- 
thing in  me  which  had  been  weak  and  falter- 
ing.    I  owed  you  much,  before  we  had  really 


UNDER  THE  BEECHES  AT  SHENSTONE  211 

spoken.  Afterwards,  I  owed  you  life  itself, 
and  love,  and  all — all,  Jim!" 

Myra  paused,  silently  controlling  her  emo- 
tion ;  then,  bending  forward,  laid  her  lips  upon 
the  roughness  of  his  hair.  It  might  have  been 
the  stirring  of  the  breeze,  for  all  the  sign  he 
made. 

"When  I  found  at  first  that  you  had  come 
from  the  war,  when  I  realised  that  you  must 
have  known  Michael,  I  praised  the  doctor's 
wisdom  in  making  me  drop  my  own  name. 
Also  the  Murgatroyds  would  have  known  it 
imm<  'y,  and  I  should  have  had  no  peace. 

As    it    was,    Miss    Murgal  i  occasionally 

1  forth  in  the  sitting-room  concerning 
'poor  -  Ingleby,'  whom  she  gave  us 

to   u  tand    she    knew    intima;       .     And 

•    —oh,   Jim!   when   I   can.  rw   my 

.-;  when  he  told  me  he 

ad  all  tl,  I  to  1  hem; 

then   ir.  it    when    I 

writ  i  plain  '  Mrs.  O'M       '; 

U  him  of  my  title  Ul 
ugh  i.  ind  it,  01 


2 1 2         THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

me  enough,  to  change  me  at  once  from  Lady 
Ingleby  of  Shenstone  Park,  into  plain  Mrs. 
JimAirth  of — anywhere  he  chooses  to  take  me! 

"Now  you  will  understand  why  I  felt  I 
could  not  marry  you  validly  in  Cornwall; 
and  I  wanted — was  it  selfish? — I  wanted  the 
joy  of  revealing  my  own  identity  when  I  had 
you,  at  last,  in  my  own  beautiful  home.  Oh, 
my  dear — my  dear!  Cannot  our  love  stand 
the  test  of  so  light  a  thing  as  this?  " 

She  ceased  speaking  and  waited. 

She  was  sure  of  her  victory;  but  it  seemed 
strange,  in  dealing  with  so  fine  a  nature  as  that 
of  the  man  she  loved,  that  she  should  have  had 
to  fight  so  hard  over  what  appeared  to  her  a 
paltry  matter.  But  she  knew  false  pride 
often  rose  gigantic  about  the  smallest  things; 
the  very  unworthiness  of  the  cause  seeming 
to  add  to  the  unreasonable  growth  of  its 
dimensions. 

She  was  deeply  hurt ;  but  she  was  a  woman, 
and  she  loved  him.  She  waited  patiently  to 
see  his  love  for  her  arise  victorious  over 
unworthy  pride. 


UNDER  THE  BEECHES  A  T  SHENSTONE 2 1 3 

At  last  Jim  Airth  stood  up. 

"  I  cannot  face  it  yet,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  I 
must  be  alone.  I  ought  to  have  known  from 
the  very  first  that  you  were — are — Lady 
Ingleby.  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  should 
have  to  suffer  for  that  which  is  no  fault  of 
your  own.  I  must — go — now.  In  twenty- 
four  hours,  I  will  come  back  to  talk  it  over." 

He  turned,  without  another  word;  without 
a  touch ;  without  a  look.  He  swung  round  on 
his  heel,  and  walked  away  across  the  lawn. 

Myra's  dismayed  eyes  could  scarcely  follow 
him. 

He  mounted  the  terrace;  passed  into  the 
house.     A  door  closed. 
Jim  Airth  was  gone! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"surely  you  knew?" 

IVAYRA  INGLEBY  rose  and  wended  her 
way  slowly  towards  the  house. 

A  stranger  meeting  her  would  probably 
have  noticed  nothing  amiss  with  the  tall 
graceful  woman,  whose  pallor  might  well  have 
been  due  to  the  unusual  warmth  of  the  day. 

But  the  heart  within  her  was  dying. 

Her  joy  had  received  a  mortal  wound.  The 
man  she  adored,  with  a  love  which  had  placed 
him  at  the  highest,  was  slowly  slipping  from 
his  pedestal,  and  her  hands  were  powerless 
to  keep  him  there. 

A  woman  may  drag  her  own  pride  in  the 

dust,  and  survive  the  process;  but  when  the 

man  she  loves  falls,  then  indeed  her  heart  dies 

within  her. 

214 


" SURELY  YOU  KNEW ?"  215 

She  had  loved  to  call  Jim  Airth  a  cowboy. 
She  knew  him  to  be  avowedly  cosmopolitan. 
But  was  he  also  a  slave  to  vulgar  pride  ?  Being 
plain  Jim  Airth  himself,  did  he  grudge  noble 
birth  and  ancient  lineage  to  those  to  whom 
they  rightfully  belonged?  Professing  to  scorn 
titles,  did  he  really  set  upon  them  so  exagger- 
ated a  value,  that  he  would  turn  from  the 
■man  he  was  about  to  wed,  merely  because 
she  owned  a  title,  while  he  had  none? 

Myra,   entering  the  house,   passed  to  her 

sitting-room.       Green    awnings    shaded    the 

window         The    fireplace  was    banked    with 

rns  and  lilies.     Bowls  of  roses  stood  about; 

die  here  and  there  pots  of  growing  freesias 

their  ite  fragrant  un  1. 

Myra  crossed  to  the  hearth-rug  and  stood 

up  at  the  picture  of  Lord   I        by. 

T'.  :ient  of  the  scholarly  face 

oentuated  by  the  dim  light.     Lady 

Ii  in  D  □  the  consistent 

the    dead    man's    manner;    I 

iling  '  bility  to  all; 

is  to  ite 


2 1 6        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

to  those  of  lower;  genial  to  rich  and  poor 
alike. 

"Oh,  Michael,"  she  whispered,  "have  I  been 
unfaithful?  Have  I  forgotten  how  good  you 
were? " 

But  still  her  heart  died  within  her.  The 
man  who  had  stalked  across  the  lawn,  leaving 
her  without  a  touch  or  look,  held  it  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand. 

A  dog-cart  clattered  up  to  the  portico. 
Men's  voices  sounded  in  the  hall.  Tramping 
feet  hurried  along  the  corridor.  Then  Billy's 
excited  young  voice  cried,  "  May  we  come  in?  " 
followed  by  Ronnie's  deeper  tones,  "If  we 
shall  not  be  in  the  way?"  The  next  moment 
she  was  grasping  a  hand  of  each. 

"You  dear  boys!"  she  said.  "I  have  never 
been  more  glad  to  see  you!  Do  sit  down;  or 
have  you  come  to  play  tennis?" 

"We  have  come  to  see  you,  dear  Queen," 
said  Billy.  "We  are  staying  at  Overdene. 
The  duchess  had  your  letter.  She  told  us  the 
great  news;  also,  that  you  were  returning 
yesterday.     So  we  came  over  to — to— 


»> 


"SURELY  YOU  KNEW?  "  217 

"To  congratulate,"  said  Ronald  Ingram; 
and  he  said  it  heartily  and  bravely. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Myra,  smiling  at  them, 
but  her  sweet  voice  was  tremulous.  These 
first  congratulations,  coming  just  now,  were 
almost  more  than  she  could  bear.  Then, 
with  characteristic  simplicity  and  straight- 
forwardness, she  told  these  old  friends  the 
truth. 

'  You  dear  boys !  It  is  quite  sweet  of  you 
to  come  over;  and  an  hour  ago,  you  would  have 
found  me  radiant.  There  cannot  have  been 
a  happier  woman  in  the  whole  world  than  I. 
But,  you  know,  I  met  him,  and  we  became 
engaged,  while  I  was  doing  my  very  original 
rest-cure,  which  consisted  chiefly  in  being 
Mrs.  O'Mara,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
of  myself.  This  afternoon  he  knows 
first  time  that  I  am  Lady  Ingleby  of 

Shcn:  tone.     And,   buy-,   the  shock  has  been 

)  much  for  him.     He    is    such    a  splendid 

man;    but   a  dear  delightful   cowboy   sort  of 

per   n.     He  has  lived  a  great  deal  abroad, 

erything   you   can   imagine  that 


2 1 8        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

bestrides  a  horse  and  does  brave  things.  He 
finished  up  at  your  horrid  little  war,  and  got 
fever  at  Targai.  You  must  have  known 
him.  He  calls  it  'a  muddle  on  the  frontier,' 
and  now  he  is  writing  a  book  about  it,  and 
about  other  muddles,  and  how  to  avoid  them. 
But  he  has  a  quite  eccentric  dislike  to  titles 
and  big  properties;  so  he  has  shied  really 
badly  at  mine.  He  has  gone  off  to  '  face  it  out ' 
alone.    Hence  you  find  me  sad  instead  of  gay. ' ' 

Billy  looked  at  Ronnie,  telegraphing:  "Is 
it?     It  must  be!    Shall  we  tell  her? " 

Ronnie  telegraphed  back:  "It  is!  It  can 
be  no  other.     You  tell  her." 

Lady  Ingleby  became  aware  of  these  cross- 
currents. 

"What  is  it,  boys?"  she  said. 

"Dear  Queen,"  cried  Billy,  with  hardly 
suppressed  excitement;  "may  we  ask  the 
cowboy  person's  name?" 

"Jim  Airth,"  replied  Lady  Ingleby,  a 
sudden  rush  of  colour  flooding  her  pale  cheeks. 

"In  that  case,"  said  Billy,  "he  is  the  chap 
we  met  tearing  along  to  the  railway  station, 


" SUREL Y  YOU  KNEW?  "  219 

as  if  all  the  furies  were  loose  at  his  heels.  He 
looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
nor,  for  that  matter,  in  front  of  him ;  and  our 
dog-cart  had  to  take  to  the  path!  So  he  did 
not  see  two  old  comrades,  nor  did  he  hear  their 
hail.  But  he  cannot  possibly  have  been 
fleeing  from  your  title,  dear  lady,  and  hardly 
from  your  property ;  seeing  that  his  own  title 
is  about  the  oldest  known  in  Scottish  history; 
while  mile  after  mile  of  moor  and  stream  and 
foi  ng  to  him.     Sur<  u  knew*  that 

the  fellow  who  called  himself  'Jim  Airth '  wh< 
out  ranching  in  the  West,  and  still  keeps  it 
)inm-dc- plume,    is — when    at   home — 
Carl   of  Airth  and    Monteith,  and  a 
.v  other  names  I  have  forgotten ; — the  finest 
old  title  in  Scotland!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHAT  BILLY  HAD  TO  TELL 

"  1"^VlO  you  bring  your  rackets,  boys?" 
^  Lady  Ingleby  had  said,  with  fine  self- 
control;  adding,  when  they  admitted  rackets 
left  in  the  hall,  "Ah,  I  am  glad  you  never  can 
resist  the  chestnut  court.  It  seems  ages  since 
I  saw  you  two  fight  out  a  single.  Do  go  on 
and  begin.  I  will  order  tea  out  there  in  half 
an  hour,  and  follow  you." 

Then  she  escaped  to  the  terrace,  flew  across 
garden  and  lawn,  and  sought  the  shelter  of  the 
beeches.  Arrived  there,  she  sank  into  the 
chair  in  which  Jim  Airth  had  sat  so  immov- 
able, and  covered  her  face  with  her  trembling 
fingers. 

"Oh,  Jim,  Jim!"  she  sobbed.  "  My  darling, 
how  grievously  I  wronged  you!      My  king 


220 


WHAT  BILLY  HAD  TO  TELL  221 

among  men!  How  I  misjudged  you!  Imput- 
ing to  you  thoughts  of  which  you,  in  your 
noble  large-heartedness,  would  scarcely  know 
the  meaning.  Oh,  my  dear,  forgive  me! 
And  oh,  come  to  me  through  this  darkness  and 
explain  what  I  have  done  wrong;  explain 
what  it  is  you  have  to  face;  tell  me  what 
nas  come  between  us.  For  indeed,  if  you 
leave  me,  I  shall  die." 

Myra  now  felt  certain  that  the  fault  was 
hers ;  and  she  suffered  less  than  when  she  had 
thought  it  his.  Yet  she  was  sorely  perplexed. 
For,  if  the  Earl  of  Airth  and  Monteith  might 
write  himself  down  "Jim  Airth"  in  the  Moor- 
head   Inn  visitors'   book,  and  be   blameless, 

iy  might   not  Lady   Ingleby  of  Shenstone 

:e  an  equally  simple  name,  without  commit- 
ting an  unpardonable  offence? 

Myra  pon  .  wept,  and  reasoned  round 

in  a  i  ing  m<  i  ire  bewildered 

1. 

went  indoors  and  tried  to 
r.  ■  all  trao     of  r«-.  ■  -s.    She  must 

not  let  Iht  Bom  fish.     Ronald 


222        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


and  Billy  would  be  wanting  tea,  and  expecting 
her  to  join  them. 

Meanwhile  the  two  friends,  their  rackets 
under  their  arms,  had  strolled  through  the 
shrubbery  at  the  front  of  the  house,  to  the 
beautiful  tennis  lawns,  long  renowned  as  being 
the  most  perfect  in  the  neighbourhood.  Many 
a  tournament  had  there  been  fought  out,  in 
presence  of  a  gay  crowd,  lining  the  courts, 
beneath  the  shady  chestnut  trees. 

But  on  this  day  the  place  seemed  sad  and 
deserted.  They  played  one  set,  in  silence, 
hardly  troubling  to  score;  then  walked  to  the 
net  and  stood  close  together,  one  on  either  side. 

"We  must  tell  her,"  said  Ronald,  examining 
his  racket,  minutely. 

"I  suppose  we  must,"  agreed  Billy,  reluc- 
tantly.    "We  could  not  let  her  marry  him." 

"  Duffer!  you  don't  suppose  he  would  dream 
of  marrying  her?  He  will  come  back,  and  tell 
her  himself  to-morrow.  We  must  tell  her, 
to  spare  her  that  interview.  She  need  never 
see  him  again." 


WHAT  BILLY  HAD  TO  TELL  223 

"I  say,  Ron!  Did  you  see  her  go  quite 
pink  when  she  told  us  his  name?  And  in  spite 
of  the  trouble  to-day,  she  looks  half  a  dozen 
years  younger  than  when  she  went  away. 
You  know  she  does,  old  man!" 

"Oh,  that 's  the  rest-cure,"  explained  Ron- 
nie, but  without  much  conviction.  "Rest- 
cures  always  have  that  effect.  That 's  why 
women  go  in  for  them.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
man  doing  a  rest-cure? " 

"Well,  I've  heard  of  you,  at  Overdene," 
said  Billy,  maliciously. 

"Rot!  You  don't  call  staying  with  the 
duchess  a  rest-cure?  Good  heavens,  man! 
u  get  about  the  liveliest  time  of  your  life 
when  her  Grace  of  Meldrum  undertakes  to 
m:  u.     Did  you  hear  about  old  Pilbeny 

the  parson,  and  the  toucan?" 

"Yes,  shut  up.    You've  told  me  that  un- 

tOty    twice    already.     I    say,    Ronnie! 

We  an-  begging  the  question.     Who  's  to  tell 

idRoi  lly.    "She  cares 

for  you  like  a  mother,  and  will  take  it  m< 


224        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


easily  from  you.      Then  /  can  step  in,  later 
on,  with — er — manly  comfort." 

"Confound  you!"  said  Billy,  highly  in- 
dignant. "I  'm  not  such  a  kid  as  you  make 
out.  But  I  '11  tell  you  this: — If  I  thought  it 
would  be  for  her  real  happiness,  and  could  be 
pulled  through,  I  would  tell  her  /  did  it;  then 
find  Airth  to-morrow  and  tell  him  I  had  told 
her  so." 

"Ass!"  said  Ronnie,  affectionately.  "As  if 
that  could  mend  matters.  Don't  you  know 
the  earl?  He  was  against  the  hushing-up 
business  from  the  first.  He  would  simply 
punch  your  head  for  daring  to  lie  to  her,  and 
go  and  tell  her  the  exact  truth  himself.  Besides, 
at  this  moment,  he  is  thinking  more  of  his  side 
of  the  question,  than  of  hers.  We  fellows 
have  a  way  of  doing  that.  If  he  had  thought 
first  of  her,  he  would  have  stayed  with  her 
and  seen  her  through,  instead  of  rushing  off 
like  this,  leaving  her  heart-broken  and  per- 
plexed." 

"Confound  him!"  said  Billy,  earnestly. 

"I    say,    Billy!    You   know   women."     It 


WHAT  BILLY  HAD  TO  TELL  225 

was  the  first  time  Ronnie  had  admitted  this. 
"Don't  you  think — if  a  woman  turned  in 
horror  from  a  man  she  had  loved,  she  might — 
if  he  were  tactfully  on  the  spot — turn  to  a 
man  who  had  long  loved  her,  and  of  whom 
she  had  undoubtedly  been  fond?" 

"My  knowledge  of  women,"  declaimed 
Billy,  dramatically,  "leads  me  to  hope  that 
she  would  fall  into  the  arms  of  the  man  who 
loved  her  well  enough  to  risk  incurring  her 
displeasure  by  bravely  telling  her  himself  that 
which  she  ought " 

"Confound  you!"  whispered  Ronnie,  who 
had  glanced  past  Billy.  "Shut  up! — The 
meshes  of  this  net  are  better  than  the  other, 
and  the  new  patent  sockets  undoubtedly 
keep  it " 

"You  patient  people!"  said  Lady  Ingleby's 
,  just  behind  Billy.     "Don't  you  badly 

'We    '  admiring    the    new    Q(  lid 

ild  Ingram,  frowning  at  Billy,  who  with 
hi  Lady  Ingl  atinued  admiring 

tl-  helpl-  ! 


226        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

There  were  brave  attempts  at  merriment 
during  tea.  Ronald  told  all  the  latest  Over- 
dene  stories;  then  described  the  annual  con- 
cert which  had  just  taken  place. 

11  Mrs.  Dalmain  was  there,  and  sang  divinely . 
She  sings  her  husband's  songs;  he  accompanies 
her.  It  is  awfully  fine  to  see  the  light  on  his 
blind  face  as  he  listens,  while  her  glorious  voice 
comes  pouring  forth.  When  the  song  is  over, 
he  gets  up  from  the  piano,  gives  her  his  arm, 
and  apparently  leads  her  off.  Very  few  people 
realise  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  is  guiding 
him.  She  gave,  as  an  encore,  a  jolly  little  new 
thing  of  his — quite  simple — but  everybody 
wanted  it  twice  over ;  an  air  like  summer  wind 
blowing  through  a  pine  wood,  with  an  accom- 
paniment like  a  blackbird  whistling;  words 
something  about  'On  God's  fair  earth,  'mid 
blossoms  blue' — I  forget  the  rest.  Go 
ahead,  Bill!" 

"There  is  no  room  for  sad  despair, 
When  heaven's  love  is  everywhere." 

quoted  Billy,  who  had  an  excellent  memory. 


WHAT  BILLY  HAD  TO  TELL  227 

Myra  rose,  hastily.  "I  must  go  in,"  she 
said.     "But  play  as  long  as  you  like." 

Billy  walked  beside  her  towards  the  shrub- 
bery. "  May  I  come  in  and  see  you,  presently, 
dear  Queen?  There  is  something  I  want  to  say." 

"Come  when  you  will,  Billy-boy,"  said 
Lady  Ingleby,  with  a  smile.  "You  will  find 
me  in  my  sitting-room." 

ad  Billy  looked  furtively  at  Ronald, 
hoping  he  had  not  seen.  Words  and  smile 
undoubtedly  partook  of  the  maternal! 

•  •••••• 

It  was  a  very  grave-faced  young  man  who, 
half  an  hour  later,  appeared  in  Lady  Ingleby's 
sitting-room,  closing  the  door  carefully  behind 
him.    La  ly  Engl  e  that  he  h 

•ne  on  s>  r  which,  at  all  i        .Is  to 

himself,  paramount  importance. 

B  r&  of  youthful  were  i 

-  T  i  i  t  i    m< 

SI:  tO 

'.vii,  Bill  .  indi- 

I 
chair,    and    little     P<  Bol 


228        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

left  it  empty.  Billy  filled  it  readily,  tin- 
conscious  of  its  associations. 

"Rippin'  flowers,"  remarked  Billy,  looking 
round  the  room. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Ingleby.  She  devoutly 
hoped  Billy  was  not  going  to  propose. 

"Jolly  room,"  said  Billy;  "at  least,  I  always 
think  so." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Ingleby.     "So  do  I." 

Billy's  eyes,  roaming  anxiously  around  for 
fresh  inspiration,  lighted  on  the  portrait  over 
the  mantelpiece.  He  started  and  paled.  Then 
he  knew  his  hour  had  come.  There  must 
be  no  more  beating  about  the  bush. 

Billy  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one.  He 
had  led  a  charge  once,  running  up  a  hill  ahead 
of  his  men,  in  face  of  a  perfect  hail  of  bullets. 
First  came  Billy;  then  the  battalion.  Not  a 
man  could  keep  within  fifty  yards  of  him. 
They  always  said  afterwards  that  Billy  came 
through  that  charge  alive,  because  he  sprinted 
so  fast,  that  no  bullets  could  touch  him.  He 
rushed  at  the  subject  now,  with  the  same 
headlong  courage. 


WHAT  BILLY  HAD  TO  TELL  229 

"Lady  Inglcby,"  he  said,  "there  is  some- 
thing Ronnie  and  I  both  think  you  ought  to 
know." 

"Is  there,  Billy?"  said  Myra.  "Then 
suppose  you  tell  it  me." 

"We  have  sworn  not  to  tell,"  continued 
Billy;  "but  I  don't  care  a  damn — I  mean  a 
pin — for  an  oath,  if  your  happiness  is  at 
stake." 

"You  must  not  break  an  oath,  Billy,  even 
for  my  sake,"  said  Myra,  gently. 

"Well,  you  see — if  you  wished  it,  you  were 
to  be  the  one  exception." 

Suddenly  Lady  Ingleby  understood.  "Oh, 
Billy!"  she  said.     "Does  Ronald  wish  me  to 

,',,'ave  Billy  a  pang.     So  Ronnie  really 

-  all,  and  would  walk  in — owr 

the  1  rts  of  Billy  and  another-  in 

.nly  comforter.     It  was  hard;  but, 

illy,   Hilly  made  answer. 

'Ye  i  'iily  right ;  and  I 

think  so  too.     I  \v  '<>  do  it,  if  you  will 


230       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Lady  Ingleby  sat,  with  clasped  hands, 
considering.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter? 
What  did  anything  matter,  compared  to  the 
trouble  with  Jim? 

She  looked  up  at  the  portrait;  but  Michael's 
pictured  face,  intent  on  little  Peter,  gave  her 
no  sign. 

If  these  boys  wished  to  tell  her,  and  get  it 
off  their  minds,  why  should  she  not  know? 
It  would  put  a  stop,  once  for  all,  to  Ronnie's 
tragic  love-making. 

"Yes,  Billy,"  she  said.  "You  may  as  well 
tell  me." 

The  room  was  very  still.  A  rosebud 
tapped  twice  against  the  window-pane.  It 
might  have  been  a  warning  finger.  Neither 
noticed  it.     It  tapped  a  third  time. 

Billy  cleared  his  throat,  and  swallowed, 
quickly. 

Then  he  spoke. 

"The  man  who  made  the  blunder,"  he  said, 
"and  fired  the  mine  too  soon;  the  man  who 
killed  Lord  Ingleby,  by  mistake,  was  the  chap 
you  call 'Jim  Airth.'" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES 

T   ADY    IXGLEBY    awaited    Jim   Airth's 

arrival,  in  her  sitting-room. 

As  the  hour  drew  near,  she  rang  the  bell. 

" Groatley,"    she    said,    when    the    butler 

ap;  1,  "the  Earl  of  Airth,  who  was  here 

will    call    again,    this    afternoon. 

When  his  lordship  comes,  you  can  show  him 

in  I  shall  not  be  at  home  to  any  one 

e.     You  need  not  bring  tea  until  I  ring  for 

he  sat  down,  quietly  waiting. 

hadn  Ithemournirj  porarily 

laid  i  The  Mack  gown,  hanging  about 

■  trailing  I  I  to  tl  ul 

lire.    The  whil 

fwhood   at    Deck    and    wrists    gave    to 


232        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

her  unusual  beauty  a  pathetic  suggestion  of 
wistful  loneliness.  Her  face  was  very  pale;  a 
purple  tint  beneath  the  tired  eyes  betokened 
tears  and  sleeplessness.  But  the  calm  stead- 
fast look  in  those  sweet  eyes  revealed  a  mind 
free  of  all  doubt;  a  heart,  completely  at  rest. 

She  leaned  back  among  the  sofa  cushions, 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  waited. 

Bees  hummed  in  and  out  of  the  open 
windows.  The  scent  of  freesias  filled  the  room, 
delicate,  piercingly  sweet,  yet  not  oppressive. 
To  one  man  forever  afterwards  the  scent  of 
freesias  recalled  that  afternoon;  the  exquisite 
sweetness  of  that  lovely  face;  the  trailing 
softness  of  her  widow's  gown. 

Steps  in  the  hall. 

The  door  opened.  Groatley's  voice,  pom- 
pously sonorous,  broke  into  the  waiting 
silence. 

"The  Earl  of  Airth,  m'  lady";  and  Jim 
Airth  walked  in. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Myra  rose. 

They  stood,  silently  confronting  one  another 
beneath  Lord  Ingleby's  picture. 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  233 


It  almost  seemed  as  though  the  thoughtful 
scholarly  face  must  turn  from  its  absorbed 
contemplation  of  the  little  dog,  to  look  down 
for  a  moment  upon  them.  They  presented 
a  psychological  problem — these  brave  hearts 
in  torment — which  would  surely  have  proved 
interesting  to  the  calm  student  of  metaphysics. 

Silently  they  faced  one  another  for  the  space 
of  a  dozen  heart-beats. 

Then  Myra,  with  a  swift  movement,  went 
up  to  Jim  Airth,  put  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  laid  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

"I  know,  my  beloved,"  she  said.  "You 
need  not  give  yourself  the  pain  of  trying  to 
tell  me." 

4 '  How  ? "  A  single  syllable  seemed  the  most 
Jim's  lips,  for  the  moment,  could  manage. 

"Billy  told  me.  lie  and  Ronald  Ingram 
came  over  j  lay   afternoon,   soon  at 

ey  had  passed  you,  on  your  way 
to  tl  They   thought  I  ought   to 

know.    &  1  Billy  told  me." 

Jim  Airth'  .s  closed  round  her,  holding 

her   tightly. 


234        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"My — poor — girl!"  he  said,  brokenly. 

"They  meant  well,  Jim.  They  are  dear 
boys.  They  knew  you  would  come  back  and 
tell  me  yourself;  and  they  wanted  to  spare  us 
both  that  pain.  I  am  glad  they  did  it.  You 
were  quite  right  when  you  said  it  had  to  be 
faced  alone.  I  could  not  have  been  ready  for 
your  return,  if  I  had  not  heard  the  truth,  and 
had  time  to  face  it  alone.  I  am  ready  now, 
Jim." 

Jim  Airth  laid  his  cheek  against  hei  soft 
hair,  with  a  groan. 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,  Myra.  It 
is  all  that  remains  to  be  said." 

1 '  Good-bye  ? ' '  Myra  raised  a  face  of  terrified 
questioning. 

Jim  Airth  pressed  it  back  to  its  hiding-place 
upon  his  breast. 

"I  am  the  man,  Myra,  whose  hand  you 
could  never  bring  yourself  to  touch  in  friend- 
ship." 

Myra  lifted  her  head  again.  The  look  in 
her  eyes  was  that  of  a  woman  prepared  to 
fight  for  happiness  and  life. 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  235 

"You  are  the  man,"  she  said,  "whose  little 
finger  is  dearer  to  me  than  the  whole  body  of 
any  one  else  has  ever  been.  Do  you  suppose 
I  will  give  you  up,  Jim,  because  of  a  thing 
which  happened  accidentally  in  the  past, 
before  you  and  I  had  ever  met?  Ah,  how  little 
you  men  understand  a  woman's  heart!  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  I  felt  when  Billy  told  me, 
after  the  first  bewildering  shock  was  over? 
First:  sorrow  for  you,  my  dearest;  a  realisa- 
tion of  how  appalling  the  mental  anguish 
must  have  been,  at  the  time.  Secondly: 
thankfulness — yes,  intense  overwhelming 
thankfulness — to  know  at  last  what  had  come 
us;  and  to  know  it  was  this  thing — 
this  mere  ghost  out  of  the  past — nothing 
■  or  real;   no  wrong  of  mi  ninst 

■  r  of  yours  against  me;  nothing  which 
livide  u  , " 
JimAirth  kedhisar     .  tookluT 

by  the  wr  his 

Thi  1  into  1.  with  a 

sil- ■:  •  ible  than  h. 

wn  poor  girl,"  he  said,  at  length; 


236        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"it  is  impossible  for  me  to  marry  Lord  Ingle- 
by's  widow." 

The  strength  of  his  will  mastered  hers ;  and, 
just  as  in  Horseshoe  Cove  her  fears  had 
yielded  to  his  dauntless  courage,  so  now 
Myra  felt  her  confidence  ebbing  away  before 
his  stern  resolve.  Fearful  of  losing  it  alto- 
gether, she  drew  away  her  hands,  and  turned 
to  the  sofa. 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  said,  "sit  down  and  let 
us  talk  it  over." 

She  sank  back  among  the  cushions  and 
drawing  a  bowl  of  roses  hastily  toward  her, 
buried  her  face  in  them,  fearing  again  to 
meet  the  settled  sadness  of  his  eyes. 

Jim  Airth  sat  down — in  the  chair  left 
vacant  by  Lord  Ingleby  and  Peter. 

"Listen,  dear,"  he  said.  "I  need  not  ask 
you  never  to  doubt  my  love.  That  would 
be  absurd  from  me  to  you.  I  love  you  as 
I  did  not  know  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to 
love  a  woman.  I  love  you  in  such  a  way  that 
every  fibre  of  my  being  will  hunger  for  you 
night  and  day — through  all  the  years  to  come. 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  231 

But — well,  it  would  always  have  come  hard 
to  me  to  stand  in  another  man's  shoes,  and 
take  what  had  been  his.  I  did  not  feel  this 
when  I  thought  I  was  following  Sergeant 
O'Mara,  because  I  knew  he  must  always  have 
been  in  all  things  so  utterly  apart  from  you. 
I  could,  under  different  circumstances,  have 
brought  myself  to  follow  Ingleby,  because  I 

disc  that  he  never  awakened  in  you  such 
love  as  is  yours  for  me.  His  possessions  would 
not  ha\'  _;hted  me,  because  it  so  happens 

I  have  lands  and  houses  of  my  own,  where  \ 

uld  have  lived.  But,  to  stand  in  a  dead 
man's  shoes,  when  he  is  dead  through  an  act 
of  minr;  to  take  to  myself  another  man's 
widow,  when  she  would  still,  but  for  a  reckless 
m-  •  ent  of  my  own  right  hand,  have  been 
a  wife— Myra,  I  could  not  do  it!    Even  with 

it  i  in  happiness. 

of  it — think!    As  we  stood  t       her  in 

I,  while  the  Church,  in  solemn 

voice,  required  and  charged   us  both,  a 

should  aj     •  rattb         tdfuldayofju         nt 

when    1  of   all    heir:  i  uld    be 


238        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

disclosed,  that  if  either  of  us  knew  any  im- 
pediment why  we  might  not  be  lawfully 
joined  together  in  matrimony,  we  should  then 
confess  it — I  should  cry:  'Her  husband  died 
by  my  hand!'  and  leave  the  church,  with  the 
brand  of  Cain,  and  the  infamy  of  David,  upon 
me." 

Myra  lifted  frightened  eyes;  met  his,  be- 
seechingly ;  then  bent  again  over  the  roses. 

"Or,  even  if  I  passed  through  that  ordeal, 
standing  mute  in  the  solemn  silence,  what  of 
the  moment  when  the  Church  bade  me  take 
your  right  hand  in  my  right  hand — Myra, 
my  right  hand?" 

She  rose,  came  swiftly  over,  and  knelt 
before  him.  She  took  his  hand,  and  covered 
it  with  tears  and  kisses.  She  held  it,  sobbing, 
to  her  heart. 

"Dearest,"  she  said,  "I  will  never  ask  you 
to  do,  for  my  sake,  anything  you  feel  im- 
possible or  wrong.  But,  oh,  in  this,  I  know 
you  are  mistaken.  I  cannot  argue  or  explain. 
I  cannot  put  my  reasons  into  words.  But 
I  know  our  living,  longing,  love  ought  to  come 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  239 


before  the  happenings  of  a  dead  past.  Michael 
lost  his  life  through  an  accident.  That  the 
accident  was  caused  by  a  mistake  on  your  part, 
is  fearfully  hard  for  you.  But  there  is  no 
moral  wrong  in  it.  You  might  as  well  blame 
the  company  whose  boat  took  him  abroad; 
or  the  government  which  decided  on  the 
expedition;  or  the  War  Office  people,  who 
accepted  him  when  he  volunteered.  I  am 
sure  I  don't  know  what  David  did;  I  thought 
he  was  a  quite  excellent  person.  But  I  do 
know  about  Cain;  and  I  am  perfectly  certain 
that  of  Cain  could  never  rest  on 

anyone,  •  of  an  unpremeditated  acci- 

•lt.     Oh,    Jim!     Cannot    you    look    at    it 

"  I  at  it  reasonably — after  a  while — 

until  id  Jim  Airth.     "At  first, 

lank,  ir.     Oh, 

!    I  have  never  been  al 
11    anyone.     Go   bark    f       the    couch;    I 
.  kneel  here.    Sit  down  ovu 

'1  you." 

to 


240        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

her  seat;  then  sat  listening — her  yearning 
eyes  fixed  upon  his  bowed  head.  He  had 
momentarily  forgotten  what  the  events  of  that 
night  had  cost  her;  so  also  had  she.  Her  only 
thought  was  of  his  pain. 

Jim  Airth  began-  to  speak,  in  low,  hurried 
tones;  haunted  with  a  horror  of  reminiscence. 

"I  can  see  it  now.  The  little  stuffy  tent; 
the  hidden  light.  I  was  already  sickening  for 
fever,  working  with  a  temperature  of  102.  I 
had  n't  slept  for  two  nights,  and  my  head  felt 
as  if  it  were  two  large  eyes,  and  those  eyes, 
both  bruises.  I  knew  I  ought  to  knock  under 
and  give  the  job  to  another  man ;  but  Ingleby 
and  I  had  worked  it  all  out  together,  and  I 
was  dead  keen  on  it.  It  was  a  place  where 
no  big  guns  could  go;  but  our  little  arrange- 
ment which  you  could  carry  in  one  hand, 
would  do  better  and  surer  work,  than  half  a 
dozen  big  guns. 

"There  was  a  long  wait  after  Ingleby  and 
the  other  fellow — it  was  Ingram — started. 
Cathcart,  left  behind  with  me,  was  in  and  out 
of  the  tent ;  but  he  could  n't  stay  still  two 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  241 

minutes;  he  was  afraid  of  missing  the  rush. 
So  I  was  alone  when  the  signal  came.  We 
found  afterwards  that  Ingram  had  crawled 
out  of  the  tunnel,  and  gone  to  take  a  message 
to  the  nearest  ambush.  Ingleby  was  left 
alone.  He  signalled:  'Placed,'  as  agreed. 
I  took  it  to  be  'Fire!'  and  acted  instantly. 
The  moment  I  had  done  it,  I  realised  my 
mistake.  But  that  same  instant  came  the 
roar,  and  the  hot  silent  night  was  turned  to 
pandemonium.  I  dashed  out  of  the  tent, 
shouting  for  Ingleby.-  Good  God!  It  was 
like  hell!  The  yelling  swearing  Tommies, 
making  up  for  the  long  enforced  silence  and 
inaction;  the  hordes  of  dark  devilish  faces, 
leering  in  their  fury,  and  jeering  at  our  dis- 
comfiture; for  inside  their  outer  wall,  was  a 
rampart  of  double  the  strength,  and  we  \v< 
no  r  taking  Targai. 

"Afterwar  1 1  —if  I  had  n't  owned  up  at  once 
to  my  mistake,   nobody  would  have  known 
how  the  thing  had  happened.         en  th 
they  tri  me  the  wronj        nal 

;  but  I  knew  better.    And  on 

16 


242        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

the  spot,  it  was  impossible  to  find — well,  any 
actual  proofs  of  what  had  happened.  The 
gap  had  been  filled  at  once  with  crowds  of 
yelling  jostling  Tommies,  mad  to  get  into 
the  town.  Jove,  how  those  chaps  fight  when 
they  get  the  chance.  When  all  was  over, 
several  were  missing  who  were  not  among  the 
dead.  They  must  have  forced  themselves  in 
where  they  could  not  get  back,  and  been  taken 
prisoners.  God  alone  knows  their  fate,  poor 
beggars.  Yet  I  envied  them;  for  when  the 
row  was  over,  my  hell  began. 

"Myra,  I  would  have  given  my  whole  life 
to  have  had  that  minute  over  again.  And  it 
was  maddening  to  know  that  the  business 
might  have  been  done  all  right  with  any  old 
fuse.  Only  we  were  so  keen  over  our  new 
ideas  for  signalling,  and  our  portable  electric 
apparatus.  Oh,  good  Lord!  I  knew  despair, 
those  days  and  nights!  I  was  down  with 
fever,  and  they  took  away  my  sword,  and 
guns,  and  razors.  I  could  n'  t  imagine  why. 
Even  despair  does  n't  take  me  that  way. 
But   if  a  chap  could   have   come   into   my 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  243 

tent  and  said:  'You  didn't  kill  Ingleby 
after  all.  He 's  all  right  and  alive!'  I  would 
have  given  my  life  gladly  for  that  moment's 
relief.  But  no  present  anguish  can  undo 
a  past  mistake. 

"Well,  I  pulled  through  the  fever;  life  had 
to  be  lived,  and  I  suppose  I  'm  not  the  sort  of 
chap  to  take  a  morbid  view.  When  I  found 
the  thing  was  to  be  kept  quiet ;  when  the  few 
who  knew  the  ins-and-outs  stood  by  me 
like  the  good  fellows  they  were,  saying  it 
might  have  happened  to  any  of  them,  and 
as  soon  as  I  got  fit  again  I  should  see  the  only 
D  thing  would  be  to  let  it  spoil  my  future; 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  put  it  clean  .  and 

live  it  down.     You  k:  it  in  the 

rn  country :  'God  Almighty  ha- 
lt isoi         the  stimuli  nets 
heir  fi no  practical  theology.     I  had  fought 

I  .1  determin< 

■   ;  .  i  well, 

h  the 

ar.  I  And   when    notes  of 


244        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHEN STONE 

his  were  needed,  I  came  to  his  own  home 
without  a  qualm,  to  ask  his  widow — the 
woman  I,  by  my  mistake,  had  widowed — • 
for  permission  to  have  and  to  use  them. 

"I  came — my  mind  full  of  the  rich  joy  of 
life  and  love,  with  scarcely  room  for  a  passing 
pang  of  regret,  as  I  entered  the  house  without 
a  master,  the  home  without  a  head,  knowing 
I  was  about  to  meet  the  woman  I  had  widowed. 
Truly  '  The  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  but  they 
grind  exceeding  small.'  I  had  thrown  off  too 
easily  what  should  have  been  a  lifelong  burden 
of  regret. 

"In  the  woman  I  had  widowed  I  found — 
the  woman  I  was  about  to  wed !  Good  God ! 
Was  there  ever  so  hard  a  retribution?" 

"Jim,"  said  Myra,  gently,  "is  there  not 
another  side  to  the  picture?  Does  it  not  strike 
you  that  it  should  have  seemed  beautiful  to 
find  that  God  in  His  wonderful  providence 
had  put  you  in  a  position  to  be  able  to  take 
care  of  Michael's  widow,  left  so  helpless  and 
alone;  that  in  saving  her  life  by  the  strength 
of  your  right  hand,  you  had  atoned  for  the 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  245 


death  that  hand  had  unwittingly  dealt;  that, 
though  the  past  cannot  be  undone,  it  can 
sometimes  be  wiped  out  by  the  present? 
Oh,  Jim!  Cannot  you  see  it  thus,  and  keep 
and  hold  the  right  to  take  care  of  me  forever? 
A  ly  beloved !  Let  us  never,  from  this  moment , 
part.  I  will  come  away  with  you  at  once. 
We  can  get  a  special  licence,  and  be  married 
imm<  ly.     We  will  let  Shenstone,  and  let 

the  house  in  Park  Lane,  and  live  abroad,  any- 
where you  will,  Jim;  only  together — together! 
Take  me  away  to-day.     Maggie  O'Mara  can 

tend    me,    until    we   are   married.     But    I 

i't  face  life   without   you.     Jim — I    can't! 

id  knows,  I  can't!" 

Jim  Airth  looked  up,  a  gleam  of  hope  in  his 
Ba<  I 

Then  he  looked  away,  that  her  appealing 
loveliness  might  not  too  much  t<-mpt  him, 

don.     He  lifted  his  i    • 
1  on  the  portrait  over  I 

manfc ' 
He 

"I  can  :  marry  Lord  I:  y*8  wid 


246        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

he  said.  "Myra,  how  can  you  wish  it?  The 
thing  would  haunt  us!  It  would  be  evil — 
unnatural.  Night  and  day,  it  would  be  there. 
It  would  come  between  us.  Some  day  you 
would  reproach  me " 

"Ah,  hush!"  cried  Myra,  sharply.  "Not 
that !  I  am  suffering  enough.  At  least  spare 
me  that!"  Then,  putting  aside  once  more 
her  own  pain:  "Would  it  not  be  happi- 
ness to  you,  Jim?"  she  asked,  with  wistful 
gentleness. 

"Happiness?"  cried  Jim  Airth,  violently. 
"It  would  be  hell!" 

Lady  Ingleby  rose,  her  face  as  white  as 
the  large  arum  lily  in  the  corner  behind 
her. 

"Then  that  settles  it,"  she  said;  "and,  do 
you  know,  I  think  we  had  better  not  speak  of 
it  any  more.  I  am  going  to  ring  for  tea. 
And,  if  you  will  excuse  me  for  a  few  moments, 
while  they  are  bringing  it,  I  will  search  among 
my  husband's  papers,  and  try  to  find  those 
you  require  for  your  book." 

She  passed  swiftly  out.     Through  the  closed 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  247 

door,  the  man  she  left  alone  heard  her  giving 
quiet  orders  in  the  hall. 

He  crossed  the  room,  in  two  great  strides,  to 
follow  her.  But  at  the  door  he  paused ;  turned, 
and  came  slowly  back. 

He  stood  on  the  hearthrug,  with  bent  head ; 
rigid,  motionless. 

Suddenly  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Lord  Ingleby's 
portrait. 

"Curse  you!"  he  said  through  clenched 
teeth,  and  beat  his  fists  upon  the  marble 
mantel]  "Curse  your  explosives!     And 

curs«-  r  inventions!     And  curse  you   for 

taking  her  first!"     Then  he  dropped  into  a 
chair,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.     "Oh, 

he   v,i  only. 

"Butt!  a  limit  I  man  can  bear." 

He  scarcely  i  •  entran 

man  who  '  i.     But  wl 

st<  the  door,  he  lifted  a  I 

I 

I  in 
bl  ! 

cuffs  .1  nur 


248        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

■  -Ml      I  I  III   ■■     I    ■   ^ — — ^— D 

Her  dark  hair,  neatly  parted,  was  smoothly 
coiled  around  her  head.  She  came  in,  defer- 
entially; yet  with  a  quiet  dignity  of  manner. 

"I  have  come  to  pour  your  tea,  my  lord," 
she  said.  "Lady  Ingleby  is  not  well,  and 
fears  she  must  remain  in  her  room.  She 
asks  me  to  give  you  these  papers." 

Then  the  Earl  of  Airth  and  Monteith  rose 
to  his  feet,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  think  you  must  be  Mrs.  O'Mara,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  and  it  is  kind 
of  you  to  give  me  tea.  I  have  heard  of  you 
before;  and  I  believe  I  saw  you  yesterday,  on 
the  steps  of  your  pretty  house,  as  I  drove  up 
the  avenue.  Will  you  allow  me  to  tell  you 
how  often,  when  we  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
in  times  of  difficulty  and  danger,  I  had  reason 
to  respect  and  admire  the  brave  comrade  I 
knew  as  Sergeant  O'Mara?  " 

Before  quitting  Shenstone,  Jim  Airth  sat  at 
Myra's  davenport  and  wrote  a  letter,  leaving  it 
with  Mrs.  O'Mara  to  place  in  Lady  Ingleby's 
hands  as  soon  as  he  had  gone. 


JIM  AIRTH  DECIDES  249 

"  I  do  not  wonder  you  felt  unable  to  see  me 
again.  Forgive  me  for  all  the  grief  I  have 
caused,  and  am  causing,  you.  I  shall  go 
abroad  as  soon  as  may  be;  but  am  obliged  to 
remain  in  town  until  I  have  completed  work 
which  I  am  under  contract  with  my  publishers 
to  finish.     It  will  take  a  month,  at  most. 

"If  you  want  me,  Myra — I  mean  if  you 
need  me — I  could  come  at  any  moment.  A 
wire  to  my  Club  would  always  find  me. 

"May  I  know  how  you  an-:' 

"Wholly  yours, 

"Jim  Airtii." 

To  this  Lady  Ingleby  replied  on  the  follow- 
ing day. 

"  Dear  Jim, 

"I  shall  always  want  you;   but    I   could 
I    unless   the   coming   would    mean 
ha]  you. 

"I  know      u  d  ou  felt  right. 

I  am  quil        U. 
"God  bl 

'   ,UA." 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  BETTER  POINT  OF  VIEW 

TN  the  days  which  followed,  Jim  Airth  suffered 
all  the  pangs  which  come  to  a  man  who 
has  made  a  decision  prompted  by  pride  rather 
than  by  conviction. 

It  had  always  seemed  to  him  essential  that 
a  man  should  appear  in  all  things  without 
shame  or  blame  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  Therefore,  to  be  obliged  suddenly  to 
admit  that  a  fatal  blunder  of  his  own  had 
been  the  cause,  even  in  the  past,  of  irreparable 
loss  and  sorrow  to  her,  had  been  an  unacknow- 
ledged but  intolerable  humiliation.  That  she 
should  have  anything  to  overlook  or  to  forgive 
in  accepting  himself  and  his  love,  was  a  con- 
dition of  things  to  which  he  could  not  bring 

himself  to  submit;  and  her  sweet  generosity 

250 


A  BETTER  POINT  OF  VIEW  25 1 

and  devotion,  rather  increased  than  soothed 
his  sense  of  wounded  pride. 

He  had  been  superficially  honest  in  the 
reasons  he  had  given  to  Myra  regarding  the 
impossibility  of  marriage  between  them.  He 
had  said  all  the  things  which  he  knew  others 
might  be  expected  to  say ;  he  had  mercilessly 
tressed  what  would  have  been  his  own 
judgment  had  he  been  asked  to  pronounce 
an  opinion  concerning  any  other  man  and 
woman  in  like  circumstances.  As  he  voiced 
them  they  had  sounded  tragically  plausible 
and  stoically  just.  He  knew  he  was  inflicting 
almost  unbearable  pain  upon  himself  and  upon 
the  woman  whose  whole  love  was  his;  but  that 
pain  accessary  to  the  tragic  demands 

tire  ghastly  situation. 

had  finally  left  her  and  v. 

hi  back  to  town,  did  Jim  Airth  realise 

that  the  pain  he  had  thus  inflicted  upon  her 

d  upon  himself,  had  been  a  solace  to  his 

.n   wounded    pride.    His    had    been   the 

I  him  in  wn 

t  and  Be        I  superiority,  that  oil 


252        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

should  be  the  decision,  so  hard  to  make- 
so  unfalteringly  made — bringing  down  upon 
his  own  head  a  punishment  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  fault  committed. 

But,  now  that  the  strain  and  tension  were 
over,  his  natural  honesty  of  mind  reasserted 
itself,  forcing  him  to  admit  that  his  own  selfish 
pride  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  his  high- 
flown  tragedy. 

Myra's  simple  loving  view  of  the  case  had 
been  the  right  one;  yet,  thrusting  it  from  him, 
he  had  ruthlessly  plunged  himself  and  her  into 
a  hopeless  abyss  of  needless  suffering. 

By  degrees  he  slowly  realised  that  in  so 
doing  he  had  deliberately  inflicted  a  more  cruel 
wrong  upon  the  woman  he  loved,  than  that 
which  he  had  ur  wittingly  done  her  in  the  past. 

Remorse  and  regret  gnawed  at  his  heart, 
added  to  an  almost  unbearable  hunger  for 
Myra.  Yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
return  to  her  with  this  second  and  still  more 
humiliating  confession  of  failure. 

His  one  hope  was  that  Myra  would  find 
their   separation   impossible  to  endure,   and 


A  BETTER  POINT  OF  VIEW         253 

would  send  for  him.  But  the  days  went  by, 
and  Myra  made  no  sign.  She  had  said  she 
would  never  send  for  him  unless  assured 
that  coming  to  her  would  mean  happiness 
to  him.  To  this  decision  she  quietly  ad- 
hered. 

In  a  strongly  virile  man,  love  towards  a 
woman  is,  in  its  essential  qualities,  naturally 
selfish.  Its  keynote  is,  "I  need";  its  domi- 
nant, "I  want";  its  full  major  chord,  "I  must 
possess." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  woman's  love  for  the 
man  is  essentially  unselfish.  Its  keynote  is, 
"He  needs";  its  dominant,  "I  am  his,  to  do 
with  as  he  pleases";  its  full  major  chord, 
11  Let  me  give  all."  In  the  Book  of  Canticles, 
one  of  the  gr  ■  /•    t  love-poems  ever  written, 

■  find  this  truth  exemplified;  we  see  the 

man's  heart  Learning  its  Lesson,  in  a  fine 

surrender.    In  the  first  si 

she  says:     "  My  I  '■•  and  I  am 

*' ;  in  the        ad,  "  I  am  my  Bel  rv         md 

he   is  min<  it  in  the  third,  all  else  is 

merged  in  the  instifl  •'  of  giving:    "I 


254        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Ill     III        ■!!!_  ± 

am  my  Beloved's,  and  his  desire  is  towards 
me." 

This  is  the  natural  attitude  of  the  sexes, 
designed  by  an  all- wise  Creator;  but  designed 
for  a  condition  of  ideal  perfection.  No 
perfect  law  could  be  framed  for  imperfection. 
Therefore,  if  the  working  out  prove  often  a 
failure,  the  fault  lies  in  the  imperfection  of 
the  workers,  not  in  the  perfection  of  the  law. 
In  those  rare  cases  where  the  love  is  ideal,  the 
man's  "I  take"  and  the  woman's  "I  give" 
blend  into  an  ideal  union,  each  completing 
and  modifying  the  other.  But  where  sin  of 
any  kind  comes  in,  a  false  note  has  been 
struck  in  the  divine  harmony,  and  the  grand 
chord  of  mutual  love  fails  to  ring  true. 

Into  their  perfect  love,  Jim  Airth  had  in- 
troduced the  discord  of  false  pride.  It  had 
become  the  basis  of  his  line  of  action,  and  their 
symphony  of  life,  so  beautiful  at  first  in  its 
sweet  theme  of  mutual  love  and  trust,  now  lost 
its  harmony,  and  jarred  into  a  hopeless  jangle. 
The  very  fact  that  she  faithfully  adhered  to 
her  trustful  unselfishness,  acquiescing  without 


A  BETTER  POINT  OF  VIEW         255 

a  murmur  in  his  decision,  made  readjust- 
ment the  more  impossible.  Thus  the  weeks 
went  by. 

Jim  Airth  worked  feverishly  at  his  proofs; 
drinking  and  smoking,  when  he  should  have 

aa  eating  and  sleeping;  going  off  suddenly, 
after  two  or  three  days  of  continuous  sitting 
at  his  desk,  on  desperate  bouts  of  violent 
exerc: 

He  walked  down  to  Shenstone  by  night; 
sat,  in  bitterness  of  spirit  under  the  beeches, 
surrounded  by  empty  wicker  chairs; — a  silent 
ghostly  garden-party! — watched  the  dawn 
break  over  the  lake;  prowled  around  the  house 

ere  Lady  Ingleby  lay  sleeping,  and  narrowly 
es<  t  at  the  hands  of  Lady  Ii 

night-watchman;  I  ,r  for  London  by  the 
first  train  in  the  morning,  more  sick  at  heart 
than  when  he  start- 

r  time  he  sudd  1   in   at 

Pad  k  the  train  down  to  Cornwall, 

an  i  Mtu  by 

into    the    <  int 

glv  Afterwards   he 


256        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


went  off  to  Horseshoe  Cove,  climbed  the 
cliff  and  spent  the  night  on  the  ledge, 
dwelling  in  morbid  misery  on  the  wonderful 
memories  with  which  that  place  was  sur- 
rounded. 

It  was  then  that  fresh  hope,  and  the  com- 
plete acceptance  of  a  better  point  of  view, 
came  to  Jim  Airth. 

As  he  sat  on  the  ledge,  hugging  his  lonely 
misery,  he  suddenly  became  strangely  con- 
scious of  Myra's  presence.  It  was  as  if  the 
sweet  wistful  grey  eyes,  were  turned  upon 
him  in  the  darkness ;  the  tender  mouth  smiled 
lovingly,  while  the  voice  he  knew  so  well  asked 
in  soft  merriment,  as  under  the  beeches  at 
Shenstone:  "What  has  come  to  you,  you 
dearest  old  boy?  " 

He  had  just  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket 
and  drawn  out  his  spirit-flask.  He  held  it  for 
a  moment,  while  he  listened,  spellbound,  to 
that  whisper;  then  flung  it  away  into  the 
darkness,  far  down  to  the  sea  below.  "  Davy 
Jones  may  have  it , "  he  said,  and  laughed  aloud ; 
11  who  e'er  he  be/"     It  was  the  first  time  Jim 


A  BETTER  POINT  OF  VIEW  2b 7 

Airth  had  laughed  since  that  afternoon  be- 
neath the  Shenstone  beeches. 

Then,  with  the  sense  of  Myra's  presence 
still  so  near  him,  he  lay  with  his  back  to  the 
cliff,  his  face  to  the  moonlit  sea.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  again  he  drew  her,  shaking  and 
trembling  but  unresisting,  into  his  arms,  hold- 
ing her  there  in  safety  until  her  trembling 
ceased,  and  she  slept  the  untroubled  sleep  of  a 
happy  child. 

All  the  best  and  noblest  in  Jim  Airth  awoke 
at  that  hallowed  memory  of  faithful  strength 
on  his  part,  and  trustful  peace  on  hers. 

"My  God,"  he  said,  "what  a  nightmare 
it  ha  a!     And  what  a  fool,   I,   to  think 

anything  could  come  between  us.  Has  she 
not  been  utterly  mine  since  that  sacred  night 
Spent  here.-'  And  I  have  left  her  to  loneliness 
...     I  will  arise  and  go  t<>  my 

.   no  pride  of 

mine,  shall  i  betw  any  I 

1[,  i       '  :     i  Ibow  and  lool 

•  .     Th<  ■  :l 

ri;  lapping  th<  the  cliff. 

«7 


258        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 


He  could  see  his  watch  by  its  bright  light. 
Midnight !  He  must  wait  until  three,  for  the 
tide  to  go  down.  He  leaned  back  again,  his 
arms  folded  across  his  chest;  but  Myra  was 
still  safely  within  them. 

Two  minutes  later,  Jim  Airth  slept  soundly. 

The  dawn  awoke  him.  He  scrambled  down 
to  the  shore,  and  once  again  swam  up  the 
golden  path  toward  the  rising  sun. 

As  he  got  back  into  his  clothes,  it  seemed 
to -him  that  every  vestige  of  that  black  night- 
mare had  been  left  behind  in  the  gay  tossing 
waters. 

On  his  way  to  the  railway  station,  he  passed 
a  farm.  The  farmer's  wife  had  been  up  since 
sunrise,  churning.  She  gladly  gave  him  a 
simple  breakfast  of  home-made  bread,  with 
butter  fresh  from  the  churn. 

He  caught  the  six  o'clock  express  for  town; 
tubbed,  shaved,  and  lunched,  at  his  Club. 

At  a  quarter  to  three  he  was  just  coming 
down  the  steps  into  Piccadilly,  very  con- 
sciously "clothed  and  in  his  right  mind,"  debat- 
ing which  train  he  could  take  for  Shenstone  if 


A  BETTER  POINT  OF  VIEW  259 

— as  in  duty  bound — he  looked  in  at  his  pub- 
lishers' first;  when  a  telegraph  boy  dashed 
up  the  steps  into  the  Club,  and  the  next 
moment  the  hall-porter  hastened  after  him 
with  a  telegram. 

Jim  Airth  read  it ;  took  one  look  at  his  watch ; 
then  jumped  headlong  into  a  passing  taxicab. 

"Charing  Cross!"  he  shouted  to  the 
chauffeur.  "And  a  sovereign  if  you  do  it  in 
five  minutes." 

As  the  flag  tinged  down,  and  the  taxi 
glided  swiftly  forward  into  the  whirl  of  traffic, 
Jim  Airth  unfolded  the  telegram  and  read  it 
again. 

It  had  been  handed  in  at  Shcnstone  at  2.15. 

Conic  to  mc  at  once. 
Myra. 

A  it  of  exultation  arose  witlun  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MICHAEL  VERITAS 

/^N  the  morning  of  that  day,  while  Jim 
Airth,  braced  with  a  new  resolve  and  a 
fresh  outlook  on  life,  was  speeding  up  from 
Cornwall,  Lady  Ingleby  sat  beneath  the 
scarlet  chestnuts,  watching  Ronald  and  Billy 
play  tennis. 

They  had  entered  for  a  tournament,  and  dis- 
covered that  they  required  constant  practice 
such  as,  apparently,  could  only  be  obtained 
at  Shenstone.  In  reality  they  came  over 
so  frequently  in  honest-hearted  trouble  and 
anxiety  over  their  friend,  of  whose  unexpected 
sorrow  they  chanced  to  be  the  sole  confidants. 
Lady  Ingleby  refused  herself  to  all  other 
visitors.  In  the  trying  uncertainty  of  these 
few  weeks  while  Jim  Airth  was  still  in  England, 

she    dreaded    questions    or    comments.     To 

. .   260 


MICHAEL  VERITAS  261 

Jane  Dalmain  she  had  written  the  whole  truth. 
The  Dalmains  were  at  Worcester,  attending 
a  musical  festival  in  that  noblest  of  English 
cathedrals;  but  they  expected  soon  to  return 
to  Overdene,  when  Jane  had  promised  to  come 
to  her. 

Meanwhile  Ronald  and  Billy  turned  up 
often,  doing  their  valiant  best  to  be  cheerful; 
but  Myra's  fragile  look,  and  large  pathetic  eyes, 
alarmed  and  horrified  them.  Obviously  things 
had  gone  more  hopelessly  wrong  than  they 
had  anticipated.  They  had  known  at  once 
that  Airth  would  not  marry  Lady  Ingleby; 
but  it  had  never  occurred  to  them  that  Lady 
In.  would    still    wish    to    marry    Airth. 

Ronald  stoutly  denied  that  this  was  the  case; 
but  Billy  affirmed  it,  though  refusing  to  give 

Ronald  had  never  sua  V  1  in  extorting 
from  Billy  01.  rd  Of  what  had  taken  pli 

when  h<         I   told   Lady  Ingleby  that  Jim 

man. 

"  !  w  how  she  took  it, 

■u   should    ha       •  ild    her   y<        ':'."   sai  I 


262        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTOIVE 

Billy.  "And  it  will  be  a  saving  of  useless 
trouble,  Ron,  if  you  never  ask  me  again." 

Thus  the  days  went  by;  and,  though  she 
always  seemed  gently  pleased  to  see  them 
both,  no  possible  opening  had  been  given 
to  Ronald  for  assuming  the  role  of  manly 
comforter. 

"I  shall  give  it  up,"  said  Ronnie  at  last,  in 
bitterness  of  spirit;  "I  tell  you,  I  shall  give 
it  up;  and  marry  the  duchess! " 

"Don't  be  profane,"  counselled  Billy.  "It 
would  be  more  to  the  point  to  find  Airth,  and 
explain  to  him,  in  carefully  chosen  language, 
that  letting  Lady  Ingleby  die  of  a  broken 
heart  will  not  atone  for  blowing  up  her  hus- 
band. I  always  knew  our  news  would  make 
no  difference,  from  the  moment  I  saw  her  go 
quite  pink  when  she  told  us  his  name.  She 
never  went  pink  over  Ingleby,  you  bet!  I 
did  n't  know  they  could  do  it,  after  twenty." 

"Much  you  know,  then!"  ejaculated  Ron- 
nie, scornfully.  "I've  seen  the  duchess  go 
pink." 

"Scarlet,  you  mean,"  amended  Billy.     "So 


MICHAEL  VERITAS  263 

have  I,  old  chap;  but  that 's  another  pair  o' 
boots,  'as  you  very  well  know.' ' 

"Oh,    don't    be    vulgar,"    sighed    Ronnie, 
arily.     "Let  's  cut  the  whole  thing  and  go 
to  town.     Henley  begins  to-morrow." 

But  next  day  they  turned  up  at  Shenstone, 
earlier  than  usual. 

And  that  morning,  Lady  Ingleby  was  feeling 
strangely  restful  and  at  peace;  not  with  any 
)ectations  of  future  happiness ;  but  resigned 
to  the  inevitable;  and  less  apart  from  Jim 
rth.     She  had  fallen  asleep  the  night  before 
•  haunting  memories  of  Cornwall  and 
climb  up  the  cliff.     At  midnight  she 
ha  I  with  a  start,  fancying  herself  on 

the  L  id  feeling  that  she  was  falling. 

it  instantly  Jim  Airth's  arms  seemed  to  en- 
fold  '  It  herself  drawn  into  safe:     ; 

e  sense  of  strength  and  n    I 
•    . 
i  vivid  had  be  m,  that  its  effect 

1  with  her  when  si  Tin; 

the  tennis  with  a  little  smile  of 
ntent  <>n  h- 


264        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"She  is  beginning  to  forget,'*  thought 
Ronnie,  exultant.  ' '  My  'vantage ! "  he  shouted 
significantly  to  Billy,  over  the  net. 

"Deuce!"  responded  Billy,  smashing  down 
the  ball  with  unnecessary  violence. 

"No!"  cried  Ronnie.  "Outside,  my  boy! 
Game  and  a  'love'  set  to  me!" 

"Stay  to  lunch,  boys,"  said  Lady  Ingleby, 
as  the  gong  sounded;  and  they  all  three  went 
gaily  into  the  house. 

As  they  passed  through  the  hall  afterwards, 
their  motor  stood  at  the  door;  so  they  bade 
her  good-bye,  and  turned  to  find  their  rackets. 

At  that  moment  they  heard  the  sharp  ting 
of  a  bicycle  bell.  A  boy  had  ridden  up  with 
a  telegram.  Groatley,  waiting  to  see  them 
off,  took  it;  picked  up  a  silver  salver  from  the 
hall  table,  and  followed  Lady  Ingleby  to  her 
sitting-room. 

There  seemed  so  sudden  a  silence  in  the 
house,  that  Ronald  and  Billy  with  one  accord 
stood  listening. 

"Twenty  minutes  to  two,"  said  Billy, 
glancing  at  the  clock.     "Spirits  are  walking." 


MICHAEL  VERITAS  265 

The  next  moment  a  cry  rang  out  from  Lady 
Ingleby's  sitting-room — a  cry  of  such  mingled 

wilderment,  wonder,  and  relief,  that  they 
looked  at  one  another  in  amazement.  Then 
without  waiting  to  question  or  consider,  they 
hastened  to  her. 

Lady  Ingleby  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  an  open  telegram  in  her  hand. 

"Jim,"  she  was  saying;  "Oh,  Jim!" 

Her  face  was  so  transfigured  by  thankfulness 
and  joy,  that  neither  Ronald  nor  Billy  could 
frame   a  question.       They  merely  gazed  at 

r. 

"Oh,  Billy!  Oh,  Ronald!"  she  said,  "He 
did  n't  do  it/     Oh  think  what  this  will  mean 

Jim  Airth.     Stop  the  boy!     Quick!     Bring 

ram  form.     I  must  send  for  him  at 

on<<-.   .   .   .   Oh,  Jim,   Jim!  .   .  .     He  said  he 

ive  his  life  for  tin  f  of  the  moment 

me  one     ould  step  into  the  tent  and 

1  him  Lone  it;  and  now   /  shall 

that   '  ".  .  .  .    I  '  v  do  y<  >u 

•  !1  'Piccadilly'?  .  .  .     Please  call  Groatley. 

If  we  Lose  d  -  tin*  ten  the  three 


266        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

o'clock  express.  .  .  .  Groatley,  tell  the  boy 
to  take  this  telegram  and  have  it  sent  off 
immediately.  Give  him  half-a-crown,  and  say 
he  may  keep  the  change.  .  .  .  Now  boys. 
.  .  .     Shut  the  door!" 

The  whirlwind  of  excitement  was  succeeded 
by  sudden  stillness.  Lady  Ingleby  sank  upon 
the  sofa,  burying  her  face  for  a  moment  in  the 
cushions. 

In  the  silence  they  heard  the  telegraph 
boy  disappearing  rapidly  into  the  distance, 
ringing  his  bell  a  very  unnecessary  number 
of  times.  When  it  could  be  heard  no  longer, 
Lady  Ingleby  lifted  her  head. 

Michael  is  alive,"  she  said. 

Great  Scot!"  exclaimed  Ronnie,  and  took 

a  step  forward. 

Billy  made  no  sound,  but  he  turned  very 

white ;  backed  to  the  door,  and  leaned  against 

it  for  support. 

"Think   what   it   means   to   Jim   Airth!" 

said  Lady  Ingleby.     "Think  of  the  despair 

and  misery  through  which  he  passed ;  and,  after 

all,  he  had  not  done  it." 


<< 


a  , 


MICHAEL  VERITAS  26? 

"May  we  see?"  asked  Ronald  eagerly, 
holding  out  his  hand  for  the  telegram. 

Billy  licked  his  dry  lips,  but  no  sound  would 
come. 

"Read  it,"  saidMyra. 

Ronald  took  the  telegram  and  read  it  aloud. 

"  To  Lady  higleby,  Shenstone  Park,  She?istone, 
England. 

"Reported  death  a  mistake.  Taken  prisoner 
Targai.  Escaped.  Arrived  Cairo.  Large 
bribes  and  n~L'ards  to  pay.  Cable  five  hundred 
pounds  to  Cook's  immediately. 

14  Michael  Veritas.'" 

"i  Scot!"  said  Ronnie  again. 

Billy  said  nothing;  but  his  eyes  never  left 
Lady  [ngleby's  radiant  face. 

'Think  what  it  will  mean  to  Jim  Airth," 
sh« 

T>  y-  ."  tid  Ronnie.  "It  considerably 
ch.      •     •    •     ituation — for  him.     What  does 

i'hat,"         lied    Lady    Ingleby    "is    our 

Michael's  and  m         My  mother 

once  wired  to  zm    is  Michael's  name,  and  to 


268        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Michael  in  mine — dear  mamma  occasionally 
does  eccentric  things — and  it  made  compli- 
cations. Michael  was  very  much  annoyed; 
and  after  that  we  took  to  signing  our  telegrams 
'Veritas,'  which  means:  'This  is  really  from 
me. 

' '  Just  think ! ' '  said  Ronnie.  ' '  He,  a  prisoner ; 
and  we,  all  marching  away!  But  I  remember 
now,  we  always  suspected  prisoners  had 
been  taken  at  Targai.  And  positive  proofs  of 
Lord  Ingleby's  death  were  difficult  to — well, 
don't  you  know — to  find.  I  mean — there 
could  n't  be  a  funeral.  We  had  to  conclude 
it,  because  we  believed  him  to  have  been 
right  inside  the  tunnel.  He  must  have  got 
clear  after  all,  before  Airth  sent  the  flash,  and 
getting  in  with  the  first  rush,  been  unable  to 
return.  Of  course  he  has  reached  Cairo  with 
no  money  and  no  means  of  getting  home. 
And  the  chaps  who  helped  him,  will  stick  to 
him  like  leeches  till  they  get  their  pay.  What 
shall  you  do  about  cabling?  " 

Lady  Ingleby  seemed  to  collect  her  thoughts 
with  difficulty. 


MICHAEL  VERITAS  l& 

"Of  course  the  money  must  be  sent — and 
sent  at  once,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Ronnie,  could 
you  go  up  to  town  about  it,  for  me?  I  would 
give  you  a  cheque,  and  a  note  to  my  bankers ; 
they  will  know  how  to  cable  it  through. 
Could  you,  Ronnie?  Michael  must  not  be 
kept  waiting;  yet  I  must  stay  here  to  tell  Jim. 
It  never  struck  me  that  I  might  have  gone 
up  to  town  myself;  and  now  I  have  wired  to 
Jim  to  come  down  here.  Oh,  my  dear  Ronnie, 
could  you?" 

"  Of  course  I  could,"  said  Ronald,  cheerfully. 
"The  motor  is  at  the  door.  I  can  catch  the 
two-thirty,  if  you  write  the  note  at  once. 
I  for  a  cheque.  Just  write  a  few  lines 
authorising  your  bankers  to  send  out  the 
m«  ;  I  will  see  them  personally;  explain  the 
wl  and  hurry  them  up.    The  money 

•   in  Cairo  to-night,  if  possibli 

by  went  to  her  davenport. 
.V        od  broke  the  stillness . 

hing  of  en. 

'1".  "I  will  come  with  v<  u  n 

ely. 


270        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"Why  do  that?"  objected  Ronald.  "You 
may  as  well  go  on  in  the  motor  to  Overdene, 
and  tell  them  there." 

"I  am  going  to  town,"  said  Billy,  decidedly. 
Then  he  walked  over  to  where  the  telegram 
still  lay  on  the  table.  "May  I  copy  this?" 
he  asked  of  Lady  Ingleby. 

"Do,"    she   said,   without   looking   round. 

"And  Ronnie — you  take  the  original  to 
show  them  at  the  bank.  Ah,  no!  I  must 
keep  that  for  Jim.  Here  is  paper.  Make 
two  copies,  Billy." 

Billy  had  already  copied  the  message  into 
his  pocket-book.  With  shaking  fingers  he 
copied  it  again,  handing  the  sheet  to  Ronald, 
without  looking  at  him. 

The  note  written,  Lady  Ingleby  rose. 

"Thank  you,  Ronald,"  she  said.  "Thank 
you,  more  than  I  can  say.  I  think  you  will 
catch  the  train.     And  good-bye,  Billy.' 

But  Billy  was  already  in  the  motor. 


»> 


CHAPTER  XXII 


LORD  INGLEBY  S  WIFE 

HPHE  journey  down  from  town  had  been  as 
satisfactorily  rapid    as    even  Jim  Airth 
could  de  ire.     He  had   caught  the    train  at 
Charing  Cross  by  five  seconds. 

The  hour's  run  passed  quickly  in  glowing 
anticipation  of  that  which  was  being  brought 
ry  turn  of  the  wheels. 
N I  y r.  grain  was  drawn  from  his  pocket- 

bo-  ny  times.     Each  word  seemed  fraught 

with  oing.     "  Come  to  me  at  once." 

It  v  i       try  Myra's  simple  direct  method 

of  •  Most  ■  old  h.  id, 

or  "Con  •  ."  or 

"Come  to    mc"    su'inod  a 

•h    unconscious,  response  to  his 
night  before:  "  I  will  arise  and 

my  I-         '.." 

■>TJ 


Ill        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Now  that  the  parting  was  nearly  over,  he 
realised  how  terrible  had  been  the  blank  of 
three  weeks  spent  apart  from  Myra.  Her 
sweet  personality  was  so  knit  into  his  life, 
that  he  needed  her — not  at  any  particular 
time,  or  in  any  particular  way — but  always; 
as  the  air  he  breathed;  or  as  the  light,  which 
made  the  day. 

And  she?  He  drew  a  well-worn  letter  from 
his  pocket-book — the  only  letter  he  had  ever 
had  from  Myra. 

"I  shall  always  want  you,"  it  said;  "but  I 
could  never  send,  unless  the  coming  would 
mean  happiness  for  you." 

Yet  she  had  sent.  Then  she  had  happiness 
in  store  for  him.  Had  she  instinctively 
realised  his  change  of  mind?  Or  had  she 
gauged  his  desperate  hunger  by  her  own,  and 
understood  that  the  satisfying  of  that,  must 
mean  happiness,  whatever  else  of  sorrow  might 
lie  in  the  background? 

But  there  should  be  no  background  of 
anything  but  perfect  joy,  when  Myra  was 
his  wife.      Would  he   not  have  the  turning 


LORD  INGLEBY'S  WIFE  273 

^^— — — 

of  the  fair  leaves  of  her  book  of  life?  Each 
page  should  unfold  fresh  happiness,  hold 
new    surprises    as    to    what    life    and    love 

-old  mean.  He  would  know  how  to  guard 
her  from  the  faintest  shadow  of  disillusion. 
Even  now  it  was  his  right  to  keep  her  from 
that.  How  much,  after  all,  should  he  tell 
her  of  the  heart-searchings  of  these  wretched 

vks?     Last  night  he  had  meant  to  tell  her 

ery thing;  he  had  meant  to  say:  "I  have 
sinned  against  heaven — the  heaven  of  our 
love — and  before  thee;  and  am  no  more 
worthy  ..."  But  was  it  not  essential  to  a 
woman's  happiness  to  believe  the  man  she 
loved,  to  be  in  all  ways,  worthy?     Out  of  his 

cket  came  again  the  well-worn  letter.  "I 
know  you  as  you  felt  right,"  wrote 

Myra.  Why  perplex  her  with  explanations? 
Let  '  bury  ii     dead.     No 

momentarily,  the  j<  >y  with  which 
they     COtlld     now    go     forward     into     a     D< 

od  what  a  lr        Wedded  life  with 

Myra 

la  porter 


274        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

and  Jim  Airth  was  across  the  platform  before 
the  train  had  stopped. 

The  tandem  ponies  waited  outside  the  sta- 
tion, and  this  time  Jim  Airth  gathered  up  the 
reins  with  a  gay  smile,  flicking  the  leader, 
lightly.  Before,  he  had  said:  "I  never  drive 
other  people's  ponies,"  in  response  to  "Her 
ladyship's"  message;  but  now — "All  that's 
mine,  is  thine,  laddie." 

He  whistled  "Hunting-tower,"  as  he  drove 
between  the  hayfields.  Sprays  of  over-hang- 
ing traveller's-joy  brushed  his  shoulder  in  the 
narrow  lanes.  It  was  good  to  be  alive  on 
such  a  day.  It  was  good  not  to  be  leaving 
England,  in  England's  most  perfect  weather. 
.  .  .  Should  he  take  her  home  to  Scotland 
for  their  honeymoon,  or  down  to  Cornwall? 

What  a  jolly  little  church! 

Evidently  Myra  never  slacked  pace  for  a 
gate.  How  the  ponies  dashed  through,  and 
into  the  avenue! 

Poor  Mrs.  O'Mara!  It  had  been  difficult 
to  be  civil  to  her,  when  she  had  appeared  in- 
stead of  Myra  to  give  him  tea. 


LORD  INGLEBY'S  WIFE  lib 

Of  course  Scotland  would  be  jolly,  with  so 
much  to  show  her;  but  Cornwall  meant  more, 
in  its  associations.  Yes;  he  would  arrange 
for  the  honeymoon  in  Cornwall ;  be  married  in 
the  morning,  up  in  town;  no  fuss;  then  go 
straight  down  to  the  old  Moorhead  Inn.  And 
after  dinner,  they  would  sit  in  the  honeysuckle 
arbour,  and 

Groatley  showed  him  into  Myra's  sitting- 
room. 

She  was  not  there. 

He   walked   over  to   the  mantelpiece.     It 

seemed  years  since  that  evening  when,  in  a 

sudden  fury  against  Fate,  he  had  crashed  his 

••    marble  edge.     He  raised  his  eyes 

to  L<>:  i    [ngl<  portrait.     Poor  old  chap! 

He  1  so  content,  and  so  pleased  with 

himself,  and  his  little  dog.     But  he  must  have 

red  more  like  Myra's  father  than 

than  anything 

a  telegram.    Af 
the  manner  of  runtry  post-office  . 

the  full  n  the  envelo]  • 

It  '.\t  Jim  Airth' ■   i  .ml   hardly   con- 


276        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

scious  of  doing  so,  he  took  it  up  and  read  it. 
"Lady  Ingleby,  Shenstone  Park,  England" 
He  laid  it  down.  "England?"  he  wondered, 
idly.  "Who  can  have  been  wiring  to  her 
from  abroad?" 

Then  he  turned.  He  had  not  heard  her 
enter;  but  she  was  standing  behind  him. 

"Myra!"  he  cried,  and  caught  her  to  his 
heart. 

The  rapture  and  relief  of  that  moment  were 
unspeakable.  No  words  seemed  possible. 
He  could  only  strain  her  to  him,  silently,  with 
all  his  strength,  and  realise  that  she  was 
safely  there  at  last. 

Myra  had  lifted  her  arms,  and  laid  them 
lightly  about  his  neck,  hiding  her  face  upon 
his  breast.  .  .  .  He  never  knew  exactly  when 
he  began  to  realise  a  subtle  change  about  the 
quality  of  her  embrace;  the  woman's  pas- 
sionate tenderness  seemed  missing;  it  rather 
resembled  the  trustful  clinging  of  a  little  child. 
An  uneasy  foreboding,  for  which  he  could  not 
account,  assailed  Jim  Airth. 

"Kiss  me,  Myra!"  he  said,  peremptorily; 


LORD  LXGLEBY'S  WIFE  277 

and  she,  lifting  her  sweet  face  to  his,  kissed 
him  at  once.  But  it  was  the  pure  loving  kiss 
of  a  little  child. 

Then  she  withdrew  herself  from  his  embrace ; 
and,  standing  back,  he  looked  at  her,  per- 
plexed The  light  upon  her  face  seemed 
hardly  earthly. 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  said,  "God's  ways  are  won- 
derful! I  have  such  news  for  you,  my  friend. 
I  thank  God,  it  came  before  you  had  gone 
beyond  recall.  And  I,  who  had  been  the 
one,  unwittingly,  to  add  so  terribly  to  the 
:t  of  the  life-long  cross  you  had  to  bear, 

.  priv  I  to  be  the  one  to  lift  it  quite 

away.     Jim — you  did  not  do  it .'" 

Jim  Airth  gazed  at  her  in  troubled  amaze- 
ment. Into  his  mind,  involuntarily,  came  the 
awesome  Scotch  word  "fey." 

"I     lid    not    do    what,    dear?"    he    ask- 

•ltly,  as  if  he  were  speaking  t<>  a  little  child 
whom  1  •  t  to  frighten. 

"  Y<>u  did  not  kill  Michael." 

'VY:  you   think   I  did   not  kill 

M.  ■■  I  Jim  Airth,  gently. 


278        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"Because,"  said  Myra,  with  clasped  hands, 
"  Michael  is  alive." 

"Dearest  heart,"  said  Jim  Airth,  tenderly, 
"you  are  not  well.  These  awful  three  weeks, 
and  what  went  before,  have  been  too  much  for 
you.  The  strain  has  upset  you.  I  was  a 
brute  to  go  off  and  leave  you.  But  you 
knew  I  did  what  I  thought  right  at  the  time; 
did  n't  you,  Myra?  Only  now  I  see  the  whole 
thing  quite  differently.  Your  view  was  the 
true  one.  We  ought  to  have  acted  upon  it, 
and  been  married  at  once." 

"Oh,  Jim,"  said  Myra,  "thank  God  we 
did  n't !  It  would  have  been  so  terrible  now. 
It  must  have  been  a  case  of  'Even  there  shall 
Thy  hand  lead  me,  and  Thy  right  hand  shall 
hold  me.'  In  our  unconscious  ignorance,  we 
might  have  gone  away  together,  not  knowing 
Michael  was  alive." 

Beads  of  perspiration  stood  on  Jim  Airth's 
forehead. 

"  My  darling,  you  are  ill,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
of  agonised  anxiety.  "I  am  afraid  you  are 
very  ill.     Do  sit  down  quietly  on  the  couch, 


LORD  INGLEBY'S  WIFE  279 


and  let  me  ring.  I  must  speak  to  the  O'Mara 
woman,  or  somebody.  Why  did  n't  the  fools 
let  me  know?  Have  you  been  ill  all  these 
weeks?" 

Myra  let  him  place  her  on  the  couch; 
smiling  up  at  him  reassuringly,  as  he  stood 
before  h< 

"You  must  not  ring  the  bell,  Jim,"  she  said. 
"  Maggie  is  at  the  Lodge;  and  Groatley  would 
be  so  astonished.     I  am  quite  well." 

He  looked  around,  in  man-like  helplessness; 

ng  something  must  be  done.     A  long 

fan,  of  exquisite  workmanship,  lay  on  a 

table  near.     lie  caught  it  up,  and  handed  it 

She    took    it;    and    to    please    him, 

op'  it,  fanning  herself  gently  as  she  talked. 

"I  am  not  ill,  Jim;  really  dear,  I  am  not. 
I  am  Only  strangely  happy  and  thankful.     It 

'■  rful  for  our  po     i     thly  hearts 
and.    And  I  am  a  little  frighten* 
but  you  will  help  n 

w.     And  I  am  rather  worried 

rut  little  things  1   have  done  wroi        It 

see:  h     but    .  j       I     i        ed 


280        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Michael  was  coming  home,  I  became  conscious 
of  hosts  of  sins  of  omission,  and  I  scarcely 
know  where  to  begin  to  set  them  right.  And 
the  worst  of  all  is — Jim!  we  have  lost  little 
Peter's  grave!  No  one  seems  able  to  locate 
it.  It  is  so  trying  of  the  gardeners;  and  so 
wrong  of  me;  because  of  course  I  ought  to 
have  planted  it  with  flowers.  And  Michael 
would  have  expected  a  little  marble  slab,  by 
now.  But  I,  stupidly,  was  too  ill  to  see  to  the 
funeral;  and  now  Anson  declares  they  put 
him  in  the  plantation,  and  George  swears  it 
was  in  the  shrubbery.  I  have  been  consulting 
Groatley  who  always  has  ideas,  and  expresses 
them  so  well,  and  he  says:  'Choose  a  suitable 
spot,  m'  lady ;  order  a  handsome  tomb ;  plant 
it  with  choice  flowers;  and  who  's  to  be  the 
wiser,  till  the  resurrection?'  Groatley  is 
always  resourceful;  but  of  course  I  never 
deceive  Michael.  Fancy  little  Peter  rising 
from  the  shrubbery,  when  Michael  had 
mourned  for  years  over  a  marble  tomb  on  the 
lawn!  But  it  really  is  a  great  worry.  They 
must  all  begin  digging,  and  keep  on  until  they 


LORD  INGLEBY'S  WIFE  281 

find  something  definite.  It  will  be  good  for 
the  shrubbery  and  the  plantation,  like  the  silly 
old  man  in  the  parable — no,  I  mean  fable — 
who  pretended  he  had  hidden  a  treasure.  Oh, 
Jim,  don't  look  so  distressed.  I  ought  not 
to  pour  out  all  these  trivial  things  to  you; 
but  since  I  have  known  Michael  is  coming 
back,  my  mind  seems  to  have  become  foolish 
and  trivial  again.  Michael  always  has  that 
i  ect  upon  me;  because — though  he  himself 
is  so  great  and  clever — he  really  thinks  trivial 
and  unimportant  things  are  a  woman's  voc  - 
tion  in  life.  But  oh,  Jim — Jim  Airth — with 
you  I  am  always  lifted  straight  to  the  big 
thin^  i  our  big  thing  to-day  is  this: — that 

Michael.     Do  you  remember 
lingo  is  you  lay  in  your  tent  recov< 

if  son:'         could  have  come 

in  and  told  you  M  and  well, 

and  tl  had  not  killed  him  after  all,  you 

our  life  for  the  relief  of  that 

mo-  Well,  /  am   that   '  One/   and 

th;  'mom 

'  think  of  nothing—absolutely 


282        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENS10NE 

nothing,  Jim — but  what  it  would  be  to 
you." 

1 '  What  telegram ? ' '  gasped  Jim  Airth.  ' '  In 
heaven's  name,  Myra,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  Michael's  telegram.  It  lies  on  the  mantel- 
piece.    Read  it,  Jim." 

Jim  Airth  turned,  took  up  the  telegram  and 
drew  it  from  the  envelope  with  steady  fingers. 
He  still  thought  Myra  was  raving. 

He  read  it  through,  slowly.  The  wording 
was  unmistakable;  but  he  read  it  through 
again.  As  he  did  so  he  slightly  turned,  so 
that  his  back  was  toward  the  couch. 

The  blow  was  so  stupendous.  He  could 
only  realise  one  thing,  for  the  moment: — 
that  the  woman  who  watched  him  read  it, 
must  not  as  yet  see  his  face. 

She  spoke. 

"Is  it  not  almost  impossible  to  believe, 
Jim?  Ronald  and  Billy  were  lunching  here, 
when  it  came.  Billy  seemed  stunned ;  but  Ron- 
nie was  delighted.  He  said  he  had  always 
believed  the  first  men  to  rush  in  had  been 
captured,     and    that    no    actual    proofs    of 


LORD  INGLEBY'S  WIFE  283 

Michael's  death  had  ever  been  found.  They 
never  explained  to  me  before,  that  there 
had  been  no  funeral.  I  suppose  they  thought 
it  would  seem  more  horrible.  But  I 
never  take  much  account   of  bodies.     If  it 

•re  n't  for  the  burden  of  having  a  weird 
little  urn  about,  and  wondering  what  to 
do  with  it,  I  should  approve  of  cremation. 
I  sometimes  felt  I  ought  to  make  a  pilgrimage 
to  see  the  grave.  I  knew  Michael  would  have 
wished  it.  He  sets  much  store  by  graves — 
all  the  Inglebys  lie  in  family  vaults.  That 
makes  it  worse  about  Peter.  Ronnie  went  up 
to  town  at  once  to  telegraph  out  the  money. 
Billy  went  with  him.  Do  you  think  five 
hundred  is  enough?  Jim? — Jim!  Are  you 
thankful?     Do  say  something,  Jim." 

Jim  Airth  put  back  the  telegram  upon  the 
mantelpiece.     His  big  hand  shook. 

"What  is   '  Y   ■  "    he   asked,    without 

looking  round. 

r  private  code,  Jim;  Michael's 
and  mine.    My  mother  I  to  me  in 

Michael's  name,   and   to  him  in  mine — poor 


264        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

mamma  often  does  eccentric  things,  to  get 
her  own  way — and  it  made  complications. 
Michael  was  very  much  annoyed.  So  we 
settled  always  to  sign  important  telegrams 
'Veritas,'  which  means:  'This  is  really  from 
me.'  " 

"Then — your  husband — is  coming  home 
to  you?"  said  Jim  Airth,  slowly. 

"Yes,  Jim,"  the  sweet  voice  faltered,  for 
the  first  time,  and  grew  tremulous.  "Michael 
is  coming  home." 

Then  Jim  Airth  turned  round,  and  faced  her 
squarely.  Myra  had  never  seen  anything  so 
terrible  as  his  face. 

"You  are  mine,"  he  said;  "not  his." 

Myra  looked  up  at  him,  in  dumb  sorrowful 
appeal.  She  closed  the  ivory  fan,  clasping  her 
hands  upon  it.  The  unquestioning  finality  of 
her  patient  silence,  goaded  Jim  Airth  to  mad- 
ness, and  let  loose  the  torrent  of  his  fierce 
wild  protest  against  this  inevitable — this 
unrelenting,  fate. 

"You  are  mine,"  he  said,  "not  his.  Your 
love   is   mine!     Your   body   is   mine!     Your 


LORD  INGLEBY'S  WIFE  265 

whole  life  is  mine!  I  will  not  leave  you  to 
another  man.  Ah,  I  know  I  said  we  could 
not  marry !  I  know  I  said  I  should  go  abroad. 
But  you  would  have  remained  faithful  to  me; 
and  I,  to  you.  We  might  have  been  apart; 
we  might  have  been  lonely ;  we  might  have 
been  at  different  ends  of  the  earth;  but — we 
should  have  been  each  other's.  I  could  have 
left  you  to  loneliness;  but,  by  God,  I  will  not 
leave  you  to  another!" 

Myra  rose,  moved  forward  a  few  steps  and 
stood,  leaning  her  arm  upon  the  mantelpiece 
and  looking  down  upon  the  bank  of  ferns  and 
lili-    . 

"Hush,  Jim,"  she  said,  gently.  "You  for- 
get to  whom  you  are  speaking." 

"  I  am  speaking,"  cried  Jim  Airth,  in  furious 
dt  'ion,  "to  the  woman  I  have  won  for 

nv  ;  and  who  is  mine,  and  none  other's. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  my  pride  and  my  folly, 
uld  have  been  married  by  now — 
married,  Myra  -and  far  away.  I  left  yon, 
I  know;  but — by  heaven,  I  may  as  well  tell 
y<ju   all    now     it   was   pride— damnable   false 


286        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

pride — that  drove  me  away.  I  always  meant 
to  come  back.  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  send; 
but  anyhow  I  should  have  come  back.  Would 
to  God  I  had  done  as  you  implored  me  to  do! 
By  now  we  should  have  been  together — out  of 
reach  of  this  cursed  telegram, — and  far  away ! " 

Myra  slowly  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at 
him.  He,  blinded  by  pain  and  passion,  failed 
to  mark  the  look,  or  he  might  have  taken 
warning.     As  it  was,  he  rushed  on,  headlong. 

Myra,  very  white,  with  eyelids  lowered, 
leaned  against  the  mantelpiece;  slowly  furling 
and  unfurling  the  ivory  fan. 

"But,  darling,"  urged  Jim  Airth,  "it  is  not 
yet  too  late.  Oh,  Myra,  I  have  loved  you 
so!  Our  love  has  been  so  wonderful.  Have 
I  not  taught  you  what  love  is?  The  poor 
cold  travesty  you  knew  before — that  was  not 
love!  Oh,  Myra!  you  will  come  away  with 
me,  my  own  beloved?  You  won't  put  me 
through  the  hell  of  leaving  you  to  another 
man?  Myra,  look  at  me!  Say  you  will 
come." 

Then  Lady  Ingleby  slowly  closed  the  fan, 


LORD  INGLEBY'S  WIFE  287 

grasping  it  firmly  in  her  right  hand.  She 
threw  back  her  head,  and  looked  Jim  Airth 
full  in  the  eyes. 

"So  this  is  your  love,"  she  said.  "This  is 
what  it  means?  Then  I  thank  God  I  have 
hitherto  only  known  the  '  cold  travesty,' 
which  at  least  has  kept  me  pure,  and  held  me 
high.  What?  Would  you  drag  me  down  to 
the  level  of  the  woman  you  have  scorned  for  a 
dozen  years?  And,  dragging  me  down,  would 
you  also  trail,  with  me,  in  the  mire,  the  noble 
name  of  the  man  whom  you  have  ventured 
to  call  friend?  My  husband  may  not  have 
given  me  much  of  those  things  a  woman 
But  he  has  trustrd  me  with  his 
nai  ad  with  his  honour;  lie  has  left  me, 

mi  his  home.     When  he   comes  baek 

will  find  me  what  he  himself  ma>le  me— 
mi  "t"  S'ic:        •  i  ;  "  i    will  find  me  wh< 

,  awai  return.     Y<  ru  are  no 

■  a  wi 
.11  Ief1  you 

well 
b  arn  how  Lord  I  guard.;  Lord 


288        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Ingleby's  name,  and  defends  her  own  honour, 
and  his."  She  lifted  her  hand  swiftly  and 
struck  him,  with  the  ivory  fan,  twice  across 
the  cheek.  ' '  Traitor ! ' '  she  said,  ' '  and  coward ! 
Leave  this  house,  and  never  set  foot  in  it  again ! " 

Jim  Airth  staggered  back,  his  face  livid — 
ashen,  his  hand  involuntarily  raised  to  ward 
off  a  third  blow.  Then  the  furious  blood 
surged  back.  Two  crimson  streaks  marked 
his  cheek.  He  sprang  forward;  with  a  swift 
movement  caught  the  fan  from  Lady  Ingleby's 
hands,  and  whirled  it  above  his  head.  His 
eyes  blazed  into  hers.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  he  was  going  to  strike  her.  She 
neither  flinched  nor  moved;  only  the  faintest 
smile  curved  the  corners  of  her  mouth  into 
a  scornful  question. 

Then  Jim  Airth  gripped  the  fan  in  both 
hands ;  with  a  twist  of  his  strong  fingers  snapped 
it  in  half,  the  halves  into  quarters,  and  again, 
with  another  wrench,  crushed  those  into  a 
hundred  fragments — flung  them  at  her  feet; 
and,  turning  on  his  heel,  left  the  room,  and 
left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


WHAT  BILLY  KNEW 


DONALD  and  Billy  had  spoken  but  little, 
as  they  sped  to  the  railway  station, 
earlier  on  that  afternoon. 

'Rummy  go,"  volunteered  Ronald,  launch- 
ing the  tentative  comment  into  the  somewhat 
oppn  silence. 

Hilly  made  no  rejoinder. 
'Why  did  you  insist  on  coming  with  me?" 

Id. 
"I  'm  not  coming  with  you,"  replied  Billy 
]         ically. 

" Y  i,  Hilly?   Why  Botr  W 

yo-  li    p  from  London  Bridge?    Don't 

i;    Billy-boy!    You  r  had  a  char,. 

You  ly  a  nice  kid.    I  'm  the  chap 


290        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

who  might  be  tragic;  and  see — I  'm  going  to 
the  bank  to  despatch  the  wherewithal  for 
bringing  the  old  boy  back.  Take  example  by 
my  fortitude,  Billy." 

Billy's  explosion,  when  it  came,  was  so 
violent,  so  choice,  and  so  unlike  Billy,  that 
Ronald  relapsed  into  wondering  silence. 

But  once  in  the  train,  locked  into  an  empty 
first-class  smoker,  Billy  turned  a  white  face  to 
his  friend. 

"Ronnie,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  straight  to 
Sir  Deryck  Brand.  He  is  the  only  man  I 
know,  with  a  head  on  his  shoulders." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ronnie.  "I  suppose  I 
dandle  mine  on  my  knee.  But  why  this 
urgent  need  of  a  man  with  his  head  so  uniquely 
placed?" 

"Because,"  said  Billy,  "that  telegram  is  a 

]•    »* 
ie. 

"Nonsense,  Billy!  The  wish  is  father  to 
the  thought!  Oh,  shame  on  you,  Billy! 
Poor  old  Ingleby!" 

"It  is  a  lie,"  repeated  Billy,  doggedly. 

"But   look,"   objected   Ronald,   unfolding 


WHA  T  BILL  Y  KNEW  29 1 

the  telegram.  "Here  you  are.  'Veritas' 
What  do  you  make  of  that?" 

"Veritas  be  hanged!"  said  Billy.  "It's 
a  lie;  and  we  Ve  got  to  find  out  what  damned 
rascal  has  sent  it." 

"But  what  possible  reason  have  you  to 
throw  doubt  on  it? "  inquired  Ronald,  gravely. 

"Oh,  confound  you!"  burst  out  Billy  at 
last;  "  /  picked  up  the  pieces  I" 


A  very  nervous  white-faced  young  man  sat 
in  the  green  leather  armchair  in  Dr.  Brand's 
consulting-room.  He  had  shown  the  telegram, 
and  jerked  out  a  few  incoherent  sentences; 
after  which  Sir  Deryck,  by  means  of  carefully 
en  questions,  had  arrived  at  the  main 
He  now  sat  at  his  table  considering 

Then,   turning  in  his  revolving-chair,  he 
looke  it  Bill 

1,  quietly,  "what  rea  i m 
ha  i  for  I  [tain  of  L«  »rd  [ngleb] 


292        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

death,  and  that  this  telegram  is  therefore  a 
forgery?" 

Billy  moistened  his  lips.  "Oh,  confound 
it ! "  he  said.     ' '  I  picked  up  the  pieces ! ' ' 

"I  see,"  said  Sir  Deryck;  and  looked  away. 

"I  have  never  told  a  soul,"  said  Billy.  " It 
is  not  a  pretty  story.  But  I  can  give  you 
details,  if  you  like." 

"I  think  you  had  better  give  me  details," 
said  Sir  Deryck,  gravely. 

So,  with  white  lips,  Billy  gave  them. 

The  doctor  rose,  buttoning  his  coat.  Then 
he  poured  out  a  glass  of  water  and  handed  it 
to  Billy. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "Fortunately  I  know  a 
very  cute  detective  from  our  own  London  force 
who  happens  just  now  to  be  in  Cairo.  We  must 
go  to  Scotland  Yard  for  his  address,  and  a  code. 
In  fact  we  had  better  work  it  through  them. 
You  have  done  the  right  thing,  Billy ;  and  done 
it  promptly;  but  we  have  no  time  to  lose." 


Twenty-four  hours  later,  the  doctor  called 


WHAT  BILLY  KNEW  293 

at  Shenstone  Park.  He  had  telegraphed  his 
train  requesting  to  be  met  by  the  motor;  and 
he  now  asked  the  chauffeur  to  wait  at  the 
door,  in  order  to  take  him  back  to  the  station. 
"I  could  only  come  between  trains,"  he 
explained  to  Lady  Ingleby,  "so  you  must 
forgive  the  short  notice,  and  the  peremptory 
tone  of  my  telegram.  I  could  not  risk  missing 
you.  I  have  something  of  great  importance 
to  communicate." 

The    doctor    waited    a    moment,     hardly 

ki.  ;    how    to    proceed.     He    had    seen 

Myra  Ingleby  under  many  varying  conditions. 

He  well;  and  she  was  a  woman  so 

invariably  true  to  herself,  that  he  expected  to 

I"-  al  •     xtly  how  she  would  act 

in.  en  combination  of  circurastano   . 

undreamed  of  development  of  Lord 

turn,  he  anticipated  finding  her 

ent;  •    gerly  ready  to  resui 

tin  the  duties  of  wifehood;  with  no  thought 

If,  but  filled  with  anxiou         ire  in  all 

thi  who,  with  his  whu 

,  had  for  nine 


294        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

months  passed  completely  out  of  her  life. 
Deryck  Brand  had  expected  to  find  Lady 
Ingleby  in  the  mood  of  a  typical  April  day, 
sunshine  and  showers  rapidly  alternating; 
whimsical  smiles,  succeeded  by  ready  tears; 
then,  with  lashes  still  wet,  gay  laughter  at 
some  mistake  of  her  own,  or  at  incongru- 
ous behaviour  on  the  part  of  her  devoted 
but  erratic  household;  speedily  followed 
by  pathetic  anxiety  over  her  own  supposed 
short-comings  in  view  of  Lord  Ingleby's 
requirements  on  his  return. 

Instead  of  this  charming  personification  of 
unselfish,  inconsequent,  tender  femininity, 
the  doctor  found  himself  confronted  by  a 
calm  cold  woman,  with  hard  unseeing  eyes;  a 
woman  in  whom  something  had  died;  and 
dying,  had  slain  all  the  best  and  truest  in  her 
womanhood. 

"Another  man,"  was  the  prompt  conclusion 
at  which  the  doctor  arrived;  and  this  con- 
clusion, coupled  with  the  exigency  of  his  own 
pressing  engagements,  brought  him  without 
preamble,  very  promptly  to  the  point. 


WHA  T  BILL  Y  KNEW  295 

"Lady  Ingleby,"  he  said,  "a  cruel  and 
heartless  wrong  has  been  done  you  by  a 
despicable  scoundrel,  for  whom  no  retribution 
would  be  too  severe." 

"I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that,"  replied 
Lady  Ingleby,  calmly;  "but  I  fail  to  under- 
stand, Sir  Deryck,  why  you  should  consider 
it  necessary  to  come  down  here  in  order  to 
discus    it." 

This  most  unexpected  reply  for  a  moment 
nonplussed  the  doctor.    But  rapid 
mental  adjustment  formed  an  important  part 
of  his  pr  >na1  equipment. 

"I  fear  we  are  speaking  at  cross-purposes," 

gently.     "Forgive  me,  if  I  appear  to 

have  tn  I   upon  a  subject  of  which   I 

have  no  knowledge  whatever.   I  am  referring 

■■    ■     ed  by  you  ye  ty, 

which  1<         -i  to  suppose  the  report  of  Lord 
Ii.  /Ji  was  a  mistaJ        ad  that  he 

might  shortly         turning  home." 

I     li  by. 
"  He  ha  ad 

I  •  him  !  i." 


296        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

For  answer,  Deryck  Brand  drew  from  his 
pocket-book  two  telegrams. 

"I  am  bound  to  tell  you  at  once,  dear  Lady 
Ingleby,"  he  said,  "that  you  have  been 
cruelly  deceived.  The  message  from  Cairo 
was  a  heartless  fraud,  designed  in  order  to 
obtain  money.  Billy  Cathcart  had  reason  to 
suspect  its  genuineness,  and  brought  it  to  me. 
I  cabled  at  once  to  Cairo,  with  this  result." 

He  laid  two  telegrams  on  the  table  before 
her. 

11  The  first  is  a  copy  of  one  we  sent  yesterday 
to  a  detective  out  there.  The  second  I  received 
three  hours  ago.  No  one — not  even  Billy — 
has  heard  of  its  arrival.  I  have  brought  it 
immediately  to  you." 

Lady  Ingleby  slowly  lifted  the  paper  con- 
taining the  first  message.  She  read  it  in 
silence. 

Watch  Cook's  bank  and  arrest  man  person- 
ating Lord  Ingleby  who  will  call  for  draft  of 
money.     Cable  particulars  promptly. 

The  doctor  observed  her  closely  as  she  laid 


WHA T  BILLY  KNEW  297 

— -  ■ — 

down  the  first  message  without  comment,  and 
took  up  the  second. 

Former  valet  of  Lord  Inglebys  arrested. 
Confesses  to  despatch  of  fraudulent  telegram. 
Cable  instructions. 

Lady  Ingleby  folded  both  papers  and  laid 
them  on  the  table  beside  her.  The  calm 
impassivity  of  the  white  face  had  undergone 
no  change. 

"It  must  have  been  Walker,"  she  said. 
'*  Michael  always  considered  him  a  scamp  and 
shifty;  but  I  delighted  in  him,  because  he 
played  the  banjo  quite  excellently,  and  was  so 
useful  at  parish  entertainments.  Michael 
took  him  abroad;  but  had  to  dismiss  him  on 
landing.  lie  wrote  and  told  me  the  fact,  but 
gave  no  reasons.  Poor  Walker!  I  do  not 
wish  him  pui  I,  because  I  know  Michael 

I  think  it  was  largely  my  own  fault  for 

itting         jo-playinj        fore  < '  r.     If 

Walk*  r  had  writ  ten  me  a  begging  I        .  I 
should  :         likely  h.v        at  him  the  m« 
I  ha\  •  '  believii  pie,  and 

of  wa: 


298        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Then,  as  if  these  last  words  recalled  a  mo- 
mentarily forgotten  wound,  the  stony  apathy 
returned  to  voice  and  face. 

"  If  Michael  is  not  coming  back,"  said  Lady 
Ingleby,  "I  am  indeed  alone." 

The  doctor  rose,  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  her,  perplexed  and  sorrowful. 

"Is  there  not  some  one  who  should  be  told 
immediately  of  this  change  of  affairs,  Lady 
Ingleby?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"No  one,"  she  replied,  emphatically. 
14  There  is  nobody  whom  it  concerns  intimately, 
excepting  myself.  And  not  many  know  of  the 
arrival  of  yesterday's  news.  I  wrote  to  Jane, 
and  I  suppose  the  boys  told  it  at  Overdene. 
If  by  any  chance  it  gets  into  the  papers,  we 
must  send  a  contradiction;  but  no  explana- 
tion, please.  I  dislike  the  publication  of 
wrong  doing.  It  only  leads  to  imitation  and 
repetition.  Beside,  even  a  poor  worm  of  a 
valet  should  be  shielded  if  possible  from  public 
execration.  We  could  not  explain  the  ex- 
tenuating circumstances." 

"I  do  not  suppose  the  news  has  become 


WHA  T  BILL  Y  KNE  W  299 

widely    known,"    said    the    doctor.     "Your 
household  heard  it,  of  course? " 

"Yes,"  replied  Lady  Ingleby.  "Ah,  that 
reminds  me,  I  must  stop  operations  in  the 
shrubbery  and  plantation.  There  is  no  object 
in  little  Peter  having  a  grave,  when  his  master 
has  none." 

This  was  absolutely  unintelligible  to  the 
doctor;  but  at  such  times  he  never  asked 
unnecessary  questions,  for  his  own  enlight- 
enment. 

"So  after  all,  Sir  Deryck,"  added  Lady 
Ingleby,  "  Peter  was  right." 

id  the  doctor,  "little  Peter  was 
not  mistaken." 

1   I   remembered  him,   I  might  have 
the    telegram,"     remarked     Lady 
I-  "What   can  have  aroused    Billy's 

su  >n 

"Like  i  "  said  the  doctor,  "Billy  1. 

sure.     Do  no1  menti 
that  I  told  you  the  doubts  originated 
with  him.    II-  ive  lad,  and  the  whole 

thing  I  him." 


300        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"Dear  Billy,"  said  Lady  Ingleby. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  the  clock,  and 
buttoned  his  coat.  He  had  one  minute  to 
spare. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "a  second  time  I 
have  come  as  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings." 

"Not  evil,"  replied  Myra,  in  a  tone  of  hope- 
less sadness.  "This  is  not  a  world  to  which 
we  could  possibly  desire  the  return  of  one  we 
love." 

"There  is  nothing  wrong  with  the  world," 
said  the  doctor.  "Our  individual  heaven  or 
hell  is  brought  about  by  our  own  actions." 

"Or  by  the  actions  of  others,"  amended 
Lady  Ingleby,  bitterly. 

"Or  by  the  actions  of  others,"  agreed  the 
doctor.  "But,  even  then,  we  cannot  be 
completely  happy,  unless  we  are  true  to  our 
best  selves;  nor  wholly  miserable,  unless  to 
our  own  ideals  we  become  false.  I  fear  I 
must  be  off;  but  I  do  not  like  leaving  you 
thus  alone." 

Lady  Ingleby  glanced  at  the  clock,  rose,  and 
gave  him  her  hand. 


WHAT  BILLY  KNEW  501 

"You  have  been  more  than  kind,  Sir 
Deryck,  in  coming  to  me  yourself.  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  And  I  am  expecting  Jane 
Champion — Dalmain,  I  mean;  why  do  one's 
friends  get  married? — any  minute.  She  is 
coming  direct  from  town;  the  phaeton  has 
gone  to  the  station  to  meet  her." 

"Good,"  said  the  doctor,  and  clasped  her 
hand  with  the  strong  silent  sympathy  of  a 
man  who,  desiring  to  help,  yet  realises  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  a  grief  he  is  powerless 
either  to  understand  or  to  assuage. 

"Good — very  good,"  he  said,  as  he  stepped 
into  the  motor,  remarking  to  the  chauffeur: 
"We  have  nine  minutes;  and  if  we  miss  the 
lust  ask  you  to  run  me  up  to  town." 
said  it  a  third  time,  even  more 
emphati  id  recovered  from  I 

surprise  at  that  which  he  saw  as  the  mol 

wn  the  avenue.     For, 
La  ';'    !\.  leby'     pi  Lining  from  the 

station  em]  for  a  travelling  coat 

left  upon  th<     i       he    aw 
loural  ain  wall.        V  >wly 


302        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

beneath  the  trees,  in  earnest  conversation  with 
a  very  tall  man,  who  carried  his  hat,  letting 
the  breeze  blow  through  his  thick  rumpled 
hair.  Both  were  too  preoccupied  to  notice 
the  motor,  but  as  the  man  turned  his  haggard 
face  toward  his  companion,  the  doctor  saw  in^ 
it  the  same  stony  look  of  hopeless  despair, 
which  had  grieved  and  baffled  him  in  Lady 
Ingleby's.  The  two  were  slowly  wending 
their  way  toward  the  house,  by  a  path  leading 
down  to  the  terrace. 

"Evidently — the  man,"  thought  the  doctor. 
"Well,  I  am  glad  Jane  has  him  in  tow.  Poor 
souls!  Providence  has  placed  them  in  wise 
hands.  If  faithful  counsel  and  honest  plain- 
speaking  can  avail  them  anything,  they  will  un- 
doubtedly receive  both,  from  our  good  Jane." 

Providence  also  arranged  that  the  London 
express  was  one  minute  late,  and  the  doctor 
caught  it.  Whereat  the  chauffeur  rejoiced; 
for  he  was  "walking  out"  with  Her  ladyship's 
maid,  whose  evening  off  it  chanced  to  be. 
The  all-important  events  of  life  are  apt  to 
hang  upon  the  happenings  of  one  minute. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MRS.  DALMAIN  REVIEWS  THE  SITUATION 

"CO  you  see,  Jane,"  concluded  Lady  Ingle- 
by,    pathetically,    "as   Michael   is    not 
coming  back,  I  am  indeed  alone." 

"Loving  Jim  Airth  as  you  do — "  said  Jane 
Dalmain. 

"Did,"  interposed  Lady  Ingleby. 

"Did,  and  do,"  said  Jane  Dalmain,  "you 
would  have  been  worse  than  alone  if  Michael 
had,   after   all,   come  back.     Oh,    Myra!      I 

imagine  anything  more  unendu: 
than  to  love  one  man,  and  be  obliged  to  live 
." 

••  I        Jd  not  have  allowed  myself  to 
loving  Jim,"       1  Lad;    I 

"  Rubbi  '  '"    pronotu  Dalmain, 

with  forceful  >n.    ">:         ir  Myra,  that 

kind  way  for  th<         I,  and 


304        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

is  one  of  his  favourite  devices.  More  good 
women  have  been  tripped  by  over-confidence 
in  their  ability  to  curb  and  to  control  their 
own  affections,  than  by  direct  temptation  to 
love  where  love  is  not  lawful.  Men  are  differ- 
ent ;  their  temptations  are  not  so  subtle.  They 
know  exactly  to  what  it  will  lead,  if  they  dally 
with  sentiment.  Therefore,  if  they  mean 
to  do  the  right  thing  in  the  end,  they  keep 
clear  of  the  danger  at  the  beginning.  We 
cannot  possibly  forbid  ourselves  to  go  on 
loving,  where  love  has  once  been  allowed  to 
reign  supreme.  I  know  you  would  not,  in  the 
first  instance,  have  let  yourself  care  for  Jim 
Airth,  had  you  not  been  free.  But,  once  lov- 
ing him,  if  so  appalling  a  situation  could  have 
arisen  as  the  unexpected  return  of  your 
husband,  your  only  safe  and  honourable 
course  would  have  been  to  frankly  tell  Lord 
Ingleby:  'I  grew  to  love  Jim  Airth  while  I 
believed  you  dead.  I  shall  always  love  Jim 
Airth ;  but,  I  want  before  all  else  to  be  a  good 
woman  and  a  faithful  wife.  Trust  me  to  be 
faithful;   help   me   to   be  good.'    Any  man, 


THE  SITUATION  REVIEWED  305 

worth   his  salt,   would   respond   to   such   an 
appeal." 

"And  shoot  himself?"  suggested  Lady 
Ingleby. 

"I  said  'man,'  not  'coward,'"  responded 
Mrs.  Dalmain,  with  fine  scorn. 

"Jane,  you  are  so  strong-minded,"  mur- 
mured Lady  Ingleby.  "It  goes  with  your 
linen  collars,  your  tailor-made  coats,  and  your 

;  boots.  I  cannot  picture  myself  in  a 
linen  collar,  nor  can  I  conceive  of  myself  as 
stain:  efore  Michael  and  informing  him 

that  I  loved  Jim!" 

Jane  Dalmain  laughed  good  -humoured  ly, 
pllinj  r  large  hands  into  the  pockets  of  her 

twee  I  retched  <  »ut  her  serviceal  >le  brown 

od  looked  at  them. 

"If  I         ■■  ■     minded'  you  mean  a  whole- 
to  the  involving  of  a       aight- 
forward  >n  in  a  ta         of  di 

-.-,  I  pl<  id. 

"Oh,  ir    I  >• 

Lady  ]  .       You  ought  to  ha 

married  hi        I  never  could  tin         and  si 


306        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

an  artist,  such  a  poet,  such  an  eclectic  idealist 
as  Garth  Dalmain,  falling  in  love  with  you, 
Jane!" 

A  sudden  light  of  womanly  tenderness 
illumined  Jane's  plain  face.  "The  wife" 
looked  out  from  it,  in  simple  unconscious 
radiance. 

"Nor  could  I,"  she  answered  softly.  "It 
took  me  three  years  to  realise  it  as  an  in- 
dubitable fact." 

"I  suppose  you  are  very  happy,"  remarked 
Myra. 

Jane  was  silent.  There  were  shrines  in  that 
strong  nature  too  wholly  sacred  to  be  easily 
unveiled. 

"I  remember  how  I  hated  the  idea,  after 
the  accident,"  said  Myra,  "of  your  tying 
yourself  to  blindness." 

"Oh,  hush,"  said  Jane  Dalmain,  quickly. 
"You  tread  on  sacred  ground,  and  you  forget 
to  remove  your  shoes.  From  the  first,  the 
sweetest  thing  between  my  husband  and 
myself  has  been  that,  together,  we  learned  to 
kiss  that  cross." 


THE  SITUATION  REVIEWED  307 

"Dear  old  thing!"  said  Lady  Inglcby, 
affectionately;  "you  deserved  to  be  happy. 
All  the  same  I  never  can  understand  why 
you  did  not  marry  Deryck  Brand." 

Jane  smiled.  She  could  not  bring  herself 
to  discuss  her  husband,  but  she  was  veiy 
willing  at  this  critical  juncture  to  divert  Lady 
Ingleby  from  her  own  troubles  by  entering 
into  particulars  concerning  herself  and  the 
doctor. 

"My  <l<ar,"  she  said,  "Deryck  and  I  were 
far  too  much  alike  ever  to  have  dovetailed 
into  marriage.  All  our  points  would  have 
met,  and  our  differences  gaped  wi  The 

qualities  which  go  to  the  making  of  a  perfect 
friendship  by  no  means  always  ensure  a 
perf  '  marriage.  There  was  a  time  when  I 
should  have  married  1  k  had  he 

to  do  so,  simply  l-<  e  I  implicitly  tr 

;it  in  all  thine.  .  EU    I  it  would  I  • 
have  occurred  to  me  to   I  .  anything 

But  it  would  not  ha\  in 

our  mutual  1  .1 

had  do  really  meant.     I    no 


308        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

more  understood  love  until — until  Garth 
taught  me,  than  you  understood  it  before  you 
met  Jim  Airth. " 

"I  wish  you  would  not  keep  on  alluding  to 
Jim  Airth,"  said  Myra,  wearily.  "I  never 
wish  to  hear  his  name  again.  And  I  cannot 
allow  you  to  suppose  that  I  should  ever  have 
adopted  your  strong-minded  suggestion,  and 
admitted  to  Michael  that  I  loved  Jim.  I 
should  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  I 
should  have  devoted  myself  to  pleasing 
Michael  in  all  things,  and  made  myself— 
yes,  Jane;  you  need  not  look  amused  and 
incredulous;  though  I  don't  wear  collars  and 
shooting-boots,  I  can  make  myself  do  things — 
I  should  have  made  myself  forget  that  there 
was  such  a  person  in  this  world  as  the  Earl 
of  Airth  and  Monteith." 

"Oh  spare  him  that!"  laughed  Mrs.  Dal- 
main.  "  Don't  call  the  poor  man  by  his  titles. 
If  he  must  be  hanged,  at  least  let  him  hang  as 
plain  Jim  Airth.  If  one  had  to  be  wicked,  it 
would  be  so  infinitely  worse  to  be  a  wicked 
earl,  than  wicked  in  any  other  walk  of  life. 


THE  SITUATION  REVIEWED  309 

It  savours  so  painfully  of  the  'penny-dreadful', 
or  the  cheap  novelette.  Also,  my  dear,  there 
is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  discussing  a 
hypothetical  situation,  with  which  you  do 
not  after  all  find  yourself  confronted.  Merci- 
fully, Lord  Ingleby  is  not  coming  back." 

"Mercifully!"  exclaimed  Lady  Ingleby. 
"Really,  Jane,  you  are  crude  beyond  words, 
and  most  unsympathetic.  You  should  have 
heard  how  tactfully  the  doctor  broke  it  to  me, 
and  how  kindly  he  alluded  to  my  loss." 

"My  dear  Myra,"  said  Mrs.  Dalmain,  "I 
don't  waste  sympathy  on  false  sentiment. 
And  if  Deryck  had  known  you  were  already 
engaged  to  another  man,  instead  of  devoting 
to  you  four  hours  of  his  valuable  time,  he 
1  have  sent  a  sixpenny  wire:  'Telegram  a 
forgery.     Accept  heartfelt  congratulations!'" 

"Jane,  you  are  brutal.     And  seeing  that  I 

have  just  told  you  the  whole  story  of  these 

.    with    the    cruel    heart-breaking 

finale  of  yesterday,  I  fail  tound         ad  how 

•i  can  speak  of  is  engaged  to  anotl  ■ 

man." 


3 1 0        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Instantly  Jane  Dalmain's  whole  bearing  al- 
tered. She  ceased  looking  quizzically  amused, 
and  left  off  swinging  her  brown  boot.  She 
sat  up,  uncrossed  her  knees,  and  leaning  her 
elbows  upon  them,  held  out  her  large  capable 
hands  to  Lady  Ingleby.  Her  noble  face, 
grandly  strong  and  tender,  in  its  undeniable 
plainness,  was  full  of  womanly  understanding 
and  sympathy. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "now  we  must 
come  to  the  crux  of  the  whole  matter.  I  have 
merely  been  playing  around  the  fringe  of  the 
subject,  in  order  to  give  you  time  to  recover 
from  the  inevitable  strain  of  the  long  and 
painful  recital  you  have  felt  it  necessary  to 
make,  in  order  that  I  might  fully  understand 
your  position  in  all  its  bearings.  The  real 
question  is  this:  Are  you  going  to  forgive  Jim 
Airth?" 

"I  must  never  forgive  him,"  said  Lady 
Ingleby,  with  finality,  "because,  if  I  forgave 
him,  I  could  not  let  him  go." 

"Why  let  him  go,  when  his  going  leaves  your 
whole  life  desolate?" 


THE  SITU  A  TION  REVIEWED  3 1 1 

"Because,"  said  Myra,  "I  feel  I  could  not 
trust  him ;  and  I  dare  not  many  a  man  whom 
I  love  as  I  love  Jim  Airth,  unless  I  can  trust 
him  as  implicitly  as  I  trust  my  God.  If  I 
loved  him  less,  I  would  take  the  risk.  But 
I  feel,  for  him,  something  which  I  can  neither 
understand  nor  define;  only  I  know  that  in 
time  it  would  make  him  so  completely  master 
of  me  that,  unless  I  could  trust  him  absolutely 
— I  should  be  afraid." 

"Is  a  man  never  to  be  trusted  again," 
asked  Jane,  "because,  under  sudden  fierce 
temptation,  he  has  failed  you  once?" 

"  It  is  not  the  failing  once,  "  said  Myra.  "  It 
is  the  light  thrown  upon  the  whole  quality  of 
his  love— of  that  kind  of  love.  The  passion  of 
it   makes  it   selfish — selfish   to  the  of 

being  utterly  regardless  of   ri  ml   wrong, 

ai  s  of  the  welfare  irtunate 

fair    name    would    have 
smirched;  my   honour   <:  1    in   th- 

nr  lire,  ruined;  but 

what  [1  ill  sw'  in 

th-  ntem  nol    his. 


3 1 2        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

You  must  come  away  with  me.'  I  cannot 
trust  myself  to  a  love  which  has  no  standard 
of  right  and  wrong.  We  look  at  it  from 
different  points  of  view.  You  see  only  the 
man  and  his  temptation.  /  knew  the  priceless 
treasure  of  the  love ;  therefore  the  sin  against 
that  love  seems  to  me  unforgivable." 

Mrs.  Dalmain  looked  earnestly  at  her  friend. 
Her  steadfast  eyes  were  deeply  troubled. 

"Myra,"  she  said,  "you  are  absolutely 
right  in  your  definitions,  and  correct  in  your 
conclusions.  But  your  mistake  is  this.  You 
make  no  allowance  for  the  sudden,  desperate, 
overwhelming  nature  of  the  temptation  before 
which  Jim  Airth  fell.  Remember  all  that  led 
up  to  it.  Think  of  it,  Myra!  He  stood  so 
alone  in  the  world;  no  mother,  no  wife,  no 
woman's  tenderness.  And  those  ten  hard 
years  of  worse  than  loneliness,  when  he  fought 
the  horrors  of  disillusion,  the  shame  of  be- 
trayal, the  bitterness  of  desertion;  the  humili- 
ation of  the  stain  upon  his  noble  name. 
Against  all  this,  during  ten  long  years,  he 
struggled;  fought  a  manful  fight,  and  over- 


THE  SITU  A  TION  REVIEWED  3 1 3 

came.  Then — strong,  hardened,  lonely;  a 
man  grown  to  man's  full  heritage  of  self- 
contained  independence — he  met  you,  Myra. 
His  ideals  returned,  purified  and  strengthened 
by  their  passage  through  the  fire.  Love  came, 
now,  in  such  gigantic  force,  that  the  pigmy 
passion  of  early  youth  was  dwarfed  and 
superseded.  It  seemed  a  new  and  untasted 
experience  such  as  he  had  not  dreamed  life 
could  contain.  Three  weeks  of  it,  he  had; 
growing  in  certainty,  increasing  in  richness, 
every  day ;  yet  tempered  by  the  patient  waiting 
your  pleasure,  for  eagerly  expected  fulfilment. 
Then  the  blow — so  terrible  to  his  sensibilities 
and  to  his  manly  pride ;  the  horrible  knowledge 
that  his  own  hand  had  brought  loss  and  sorrow 
to  you,  whom  he  would  have  shielded  from 
the  faintest  shadow  of  pain.  Then  his  mistake 
in  all  ilse  pride  to  come  bet  you. 

Tl  growing  hunger  and   regret, 

foil        ;   by  your   sumi        .  which 
to  pi  happiness  after  all;  for,  remember 

wl  had  been  bringii  If  to  ac- 

qr.  'y  final,  so 


3 1 4        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHEN STONE 

— ^— ^ — — ^— i^ — ^— ^M^M^—  II  .       ..      -      I       ■        IMM.J      ■— ^— — — e*^ 

that  the  news  of  Lord  Ingleby's  return  meant 
no  loss  to  you  and  to  him,  merely  the  relief 
of  his  exculpation,  lie  had  been  coming  round 
to  a  more  reasonable  point  of  view,  and 
realising  that,  after  all,  he  had  not  lost  you. 
You  sent  for  him,  and  he  came — once  more 
aglow  with  love  and  certainty — only  to  hear 
that  he  had  not  only  lost  you  himself,  but 
must  leave  you  to  another  man.  Oh  Myra! 
Can  you  not  make  allowance  for  a  moment  of 
fierce  madness?  Can  you  not  see  that  the 
very  strength  of  the  man  momentarily  turned 
in  the  wrong  direction,  brought  about  his 
downfall?  You  tell  me  you  called  him 
coward  and  traitor?  You  might  as  well  have 
struck  him!  Such  words  from  your  lips  must 
have  been  worse  than  blows.  I  admit  he 
deserved  them;  yet  Saint  Peter  was  thrice  a 
coward  and  a  traitor,  but  his  Lord,  making 
allowance  for  a  sudden  yielding  to  temptation, 
did  not  doubt  the  loyalty  of  his  love,  but  gave 
him  a  chance  of  threefold  public  confession, 
and  forgave  him.  If  Divine  Love  could  do 
this — oh,  Myra,  can  you  let  your  lover  go  out 


THE  SITU  A  TION  REVIEWED  3 1 5 

into  the  world  again,  alone,  without  one  word 
of  forgiveness?" 

How  do  I  know  he  wants  my  forgiveness, 
Jane?  He  left  me  in  a  towering  fury.  And 
how  could  my  forgiveness  reach  him,  even 
supposing  he  desired  it,  or  I  could  give  it? 
Vv'here  is  he  now?  " 

"He  left  you  in  despair,"  said  Mrs.  Dalmain, 
"and — he  is  in  the  library." 

Lady  Ingleby  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Jane!  Jim  Airth  in  this  house!  Who 
admitted  him?" 

"I  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Dalmain,  coolly.  "I 
smuggled  him  in.  Not  a  soul  saw  us  enter. 
That  was  why  I  sent  the  carriage  on  ahead, 
when  we  reached  the  park  gates.  We  walked 
up  the  avenue,  turned  down  on  to  the  terrace 
ar.  the  It.  i  or,     lie  has 

sittii  library-  e  If  you 

im,  I  i  and  tell 

hii  can  go  out  me  in,         none 

will  know  to 
Dear  M  k  so  < 

sit  I  Let  us  finish  our  talk.  .  .  . 


3 !  6        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

That  is  right.  You  must  not  be  hurried.  A 
decision  which  affects  one 's  whole  life,  cannot 
be  made  in  a  minute,  nor  even  in  an  hour. 
Lord  Airth  does  not  wish  to  force  an  interview, 
nor  do  I  wish  to  persuade  you  to  grant  him  one. 
He  will  not  be  surprised  if  I  bring  him  word 
that  you  would  rather  not  see  him." 

''Rather  not?"   cried   Myra,   with  clasped 
hands.     "Oh  Jane,  if  you  could  know  what- 
the  mere  thought  of  seeing  him  means  to  me, 
you  would  not  say 'rather  not,'  but 'dare  not. ' " 

"Let  me  tell  you  how  we  met,"  said  Mrs. 
Dalmain,  ignoring  the  last  remark.  "I  reached 
Charing  Cross  in  good  time;  stopped  at  the 
book  stall  for  a  supply  of  papers;  secured  an 
empty  compartment,  and  settled  down  to 
a  quiet  hour.  Jim  Airth  dashed  into  the 
station  with  barely  one  minute  in  which  to 
take  his  ticket  and  reach  the  train.  He  tore 
up  the  platform,  as  the  train  began  to  move; 
had  not  time  to  reach  a  smoker;  wrenched 
open  the  door  of  my  compartment;  jumped  in 
headlong,  and  sat  down  upon  my  papers; 
turned  to  apologise,  and  found  himself  shut 


THE  SITU  A  TION  REVIEWED  3 1 7 

in  alone  for  an  hour  with  the  friend  to  whom 
you  had  written  weekly  lettersfrom  Cornwall, 
and  of  whom  you  had  apparently  told  him 
rather  nice  things — or,  at  all  events  things 
which  led  him  to  consider  me  trustworthy. 
He  recognised  me  by  a  recent  photograph 
which  you  had  shown  him." 

"I  remember,"  said  Myra.  "I  kept  it  in 
my  writing-case.  He  took  it  up  and  looked 
at  it  several  times.  I  often  spoke  to  him  of 
you." 

"He  introduced  himself  with  straight- 
forward simplicity,"  continued  Mrs.  Dalmain, 

nd  then — we  neither  of  us  knew  quite  how 
it  happened — in  a  few  minutes  we  were  talk- 
ing without  reserve.     I  believe  he  felt  frank- 

is  with  me  on  his  part  might  enable  me, 
in  the  futui  a  comfort  I  i — you  are 

i  one  ■         ht;  also,  that  if  I  interceded,  y<>u 
;rant  him  that  came 

■  -amit;  UT  for 

!    the 
si: 

tel«  He  sails  for 


3 1 8       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

America  almost  immediately,  but  could  not 
bring  himself  to  leave  England  without 
having  expressed  to  you  his  contrition,  and 
obtained  your  pardon.  He  would  have 
written,  but  did  not  feel  he  ought,  for  your 
sake,  to  run  the  risk  of  putting  explanations 
on  to  paper.  Also  I  honestly  believe  it  is 
breaking  his  heart,  poor  fellow,  to  feel  that 
you  and  he  parted  forever,  in  anger.  His 
love  for  you  is  a  very  great  love,  Myra." 

"Oh,  Jane,"  cried  Lady  Ingleby,  "I  cannot 
let  him  go!  And  yet — I  cannot  marry  him. 
I  love  him  with  every  fibre  of  my  whole  being, 
and  yet  I  cannot  trust  him.  Oh,  Jane,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

"You  must  give  him  a  chance,"  said  Mrs. 
Dalmain,  "to  retrieve  his  mistake,  and  to 
prove  himself  the  man  we  know  him  to  be. 
Say  to  him,  without  explanation,  what  you 
have  just  said  to  me:  that  you  cannot  let  Mm 
go;  and  see  how  he  takes  it.  Listen,  Myra. 
The  unforeseen  developments  of  the  last  few 
hours  have  put  it  into  your  power  to  give 
Jim  Airth  his  chance.     You  must  not  rob 


THE  SITU  A  TION  REVIEWED  3 1 9 


him  of  it.  Years  ago,  when  Garth  and  I  were 
in  an  apparently  hopeless  tangle  of  irretriev- 
able mistake,  Deryck  found  us  a  way  out. 
He  said  if  Garth  could  go  behind  his  blindness 
and  express  an  opinion  which  he  only  could 
have  given  while  he  had  his  sight,  the  question 
might  be  solved.  I  need  not  trouble  you  with 
details,  but  that  was  exactly  what  happened, 
and  our  great  happiness  resulted.  Now,  in 
your  case,  Jim  Airth  must  be  given  the 
chance  to  go  behind  his  madness,  regain  his 
own  self-respect,  and  prove  himself  worthy 
of  your  trust.  Have  you  told  any  one  of  the 
second  telegram  from  Cairo?" 

"I  saw  nobody,"  said  Lady  Ingleby,  "from 
the  moment  Sir  Deryck  left  me,  until  you 
walked  in." 

"Very  welL     Then  you,  and  Deryck,  and 
I,  arc  the  only  people  in  England  who  kn< 
of  it.     Jim  Airtli  will   have   n<>  idea  of  any 
chan  OS    since  iy.     Do 

at  that  means,  Myra?" 

pale  "Oh 

l   lare  not!    It"  he  fail  . " 


320        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

"He  will  not  fail,"  replied  Mrs.  Dalmain, 
with  decision;  "but  should  he  do  so,  he  will 
have  proved  himself,  as  you  say,  unworthy 
of  your  trust.  Then — you  can  forgive  him, 
and  let  him  go." 

■  "I  cannot  let  him  go!"  cried  Myra.  "And 
yet  I  cannot  marry  him,  unless  he  is  all  I  have 
believed  him  to  be." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Dal- 
main, tenderly.  "You  need  to  learn  a  lesson 
about  married  life.  True  happiness  does  not 
come  from  marrying  an  idol  throned  on  a 
pedestal.  Before  Galatea  could  wed  Pyg- 
malion, she  had  to  change  from  marble  into 
glowing  flesh  and  blood,  and  step  down  from 
off  her  pedestal.  Love  should  not  make  us 
blind  to  one  another's  faults.  It  should]only 
make  us  infinitely  tender,  and  completely  un- 
derstanding. Let  me  tell  you  a  shrewd  remark 
of  Aunt  Georgina's  on  that  subject.  Speaking 
to  a  young  married  woman  who  considered  her- 
self wronged  and  disillusioned  because,  the 
honeymoon  over,  she  discovered  her  husband 
not  to  be  in  all  things  absolutely  perfect:  'Ah, 


THE  SITU  A  TION  REVIEWED  32 1 

my  good  girl,'  said  Aunt  'Gina,  rapping  the 
floor  with  her  ebony  cane;  'you  made  a  foolish 
mistake  if  you  imagined  you  were  marrying  an 
angel,  when  we  have  it,  on  the  very  highest  au- 
thority, that  the  angels  neither  marry  nor  are 
given  in  marriage.  Men  and  women,  who  are 
human  enough  to  marry,  are  human  enough  to 
be  full  of  faults;  and  the  best  thing  marriage 
provi  '  that  each  gets  somebody  who  will 

love,  foi         .  and  understand.     If   you  had 
ited  for  |  :tion,  you  would  h:.  iched 

en  a  spinster,  which  would  have  been,  to 
say  the  least  of  it,  dull — when  you  had  had  I 
chance  of  matrimony  on  earth !     Go  and  make 
it  up  with  that  nice  boy  of  yours,  or  I  shall  find 
him    i  y — '     But  the  little  br  ter 

anger  dissolving  in  lau  its,  h 

the  lawn  in  pursuit  oi 
in    ' 

\v;ir>\       e  river.    '  1  into  the 

.  in  a 
heard 

r.      '  Sill  :  '     .'.•:•  *      'l 


322        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

I  'm  not  there  to  spank  them;  and  then 
there  '11  be  a  shipwreck!  Oh,  why  did  Adam 
marry,  and  spoil  that  peaceful  garden?' 
Whereat  Tommy,  the  old  scarlet  macaw, 
swung  head  downwards  from  his  golden 
perch,  with  such  shrieks  of  delighted  laughter, 
mingled  with  appropriate  profanity,  that 
Aunt  'Gina's  good-humour  was  instantly 
restored.  '  Give  him  a  strawberry,  somebody ! ' 
she  said ;  and  spoke  no  more  on  things  matri- 
monial." 

Myra  laughed.  "The  duchess's  views  are 
always  refreshing.  I  wonder  whether  Michael 
and  I  made  the  mistake  of  not  realising  each 
other  to  be  human;  of  not  admitting  there 
was  anything  to  forgive,  and  therefore  never 
forgiving?" 

"Well,  don't  make  it  with  Jim  Airth," 
advised  Mrs.  Dalmain,  "for  he  is  the  most 
human  man  I  ever  met;  also  the  strongest, 
and  one  of  the  most  lovable.  Myra,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  waiting.  Let  me 
send  him  to  you  now;  and,  remember,  all  he 
asks  or  expects  is  one  word  of  forgiveness." 


THE  SITUATION  REVIEWED  323 

"Oh,  Jane!"  cried  Lady  Ingleby,  with 
clasped  hands.  "Do  wait  a  little  while. 
Give  me  time  to  think;  time  to  consider;  time 
to  decid- 

"Nonsense,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dalmain. 
"When  but  one  right  course  lies  before  you, 
there  can  be  no  possible  need  for  hesitation  or 
consideration.  You  are  merely  nervously 
postponing  the  inevitable.  You  remind  me 
of  scenes  we  used  to  have  in  the  out-patient 
department  of  a  hospital  in  the  East  End  of 
London,  to  which  I  once  went  for  training. 
When  patients  came  to  the  surgery  for  teeth 

Taction,  and  the  pretty  sympathetic  little 
nurse  in  them  safely  fixed  into 

the    chair;  of    I  :'-.'.,    prompt 

ai.  me  f-  I   with  um         kably 

ready,  tl 
tient  would  exclaim:  'f'ii,  let   tin-  nurse  do 

do  it !'  th<  vidently 

that  three  or  four  dii  pulls  by  the 

nui  alai        -   than   the   sharp 

inly  of  one  from  V.  ■  ■ ,  my 

ar  Myra,  you  ha       to  1. 


324       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

If  it  is  to  be  successful  there  must  be  no 
uncertainty." 

"Oh,  Jane,  I  wish  you  were  not  such  a 
decided  person.  I  am  sure  when  you  were  the 
nurse,  the  poor  things  preferred  the  doctors. 
I  am  terrified ;  yet  I  know  you  are  right.  And, 
oh,  you  dear,  don't  leave  me!  See  me 
through." 

"I  am  never  away  from  Garth  for  a  night, 
as  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Dalmain.  "But  he 
and  little  Geoff  went  down  to  Overdene  this 
morning,  with  Simpson  and  nurse;  so,  if  your 
man  can  motor  me  over  during  the  evening,  I 
will  stay  as  long  as  you  need  me." 

"Ah,  thanks,"  said  Lady  Ingleby.  "And 
now,  Jane,  you  have  done  all  you  can  for  me; 
and  God  knows  how  much  that  means,  fl 
want  to  be  quite  alone  for  an  hour.  I  feel 
I  must  face  it  out,  and  decide  what  I  really 
intend  doing.  I  owe  it  to  Jim,  I  owe  it  to 
myself,  to  be  quite  sure  what  I  mean  to  say, 
before  I  see  him.  Order  tea  in  the  library. 
Tell  him  I  will  see  him ;  and,  at  the  end  of  the 
hour,  send  him  here.     But,  Jane — not  a  hint 


THE  SITUATION  REVIEWED  325 

of  anything  which  has  passed  between  us.  I 
may  rely  on  you?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dalmain,  gently, 
"I  play  the  game!" 

She  rose  and  stood  on  the  hearthrug,  looking 
intently  at  her  husband's  painting  of  Lord 
Ingleby. 

"And,  Myra,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  do  entreat 
you  to  remember,  you  are  dealing  with  an 
unknown  quantity.  You  have  never  before 
known  intimately  a  man  of  Jim  Airth's 
temperament.  His  love  for  you,  and  yours 
for  him,  hold  elements  as  yet  not  fully  under- 
stood by  you.  Remember  this,  in  drawing 
your  conclusions.  I  had  almost  said,  Let 
instinct  guide,  rather  than  reason." 

"I  understand  your  meaning/'  said  Lady 

Ii  "But   I    dare    not    depend    upon 

cither  instinct  or  reason.     I  have  DOt  been  a 

.an,  Jane,  as  of  course  you  know; 

but — I  have  been  learning  lately;  and,  .     1 

learn,  I  try  topi        e.     I  &  el  myself  t"  be  in 

i  dark        I   difficult  a  place,  that   I    am 

trying  to     /,  'Even   there  shall  Thy  hand 


326       THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

lead  me,  and  Thy  right  Hand  shall  hold 
me.'  " 

"Ah,  you  are  right,"  said  Jane's  deep  earn- 
est voice;  "that  is  the  best  of  all.  God's  hand 
alone  leads  surely,  out  of  darkness  into  light." 

She  put  a  kind  arm  firmly  around  her  friend, 
for  a  moment. 

Then : — ' '  I  will  send  him  to  you  in  an  hour,'* 
she  said,  and  left  the  room. 

Lady  Ingleby  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  TEST 

HPHE  door  of  Myra's  sitting-room  opened 
*       quietly,  and  Jim  Airth  came  in. 

She  awaited  him  upon  the  couch,  sitting 
very  still,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 

The  room  seemed  full  of  flowers,  and  of  soft 
sunset  light. 

He  closed  the  door,  and  came  and  stood 
. 

Por  a  few  moments  they  looked  steadily 
into  one  another' 

Then  Jim  Airth  '.'  low. 

"  It  is  so  kro<  U  t()  : '  ud. 

"  It    i  |  ;:!;:.•  <st  1  ban    I    had    ventur 

[  am  li      :  ad  in  a  few  h<>v.- 

It  |  hard  to  ^>  -without  tl.     . 

Now  it  will  1" 


328        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and  waited  in 
silence. 

"Myra,"  he  said,  "can  you  forgive  me?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Jim,"  she  answered,  gently. 
"  I  want  to  be  quite  honest  with  you,  and  with 
myself.  If  I  had  cared  less,  I  could  have 
forgiven  more  easily." 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "Oh,  Myra,  I  know. 
And  I  would  not  have  you  forgive  lightly,  so 
great  a  sin  against  our  love.  But,  dear — if, 
before  I  go,  you  could  say,  'I  understand,' 
it  would  mean  almost  more  to  me,  than  if  you 
said,  'I  forgive.'  " 

"Jim,"  said  Myra,  gently,  a  tremor  of 
tenderness  in  her  sweet  voice,  "I  understand." 

He  came  quite  near,  and  took  her  hands  in 
his,  holding  them  for  a  moment,  with  tender 
reverence. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  he  said.  "You  are 
very  good." 

He  loosed  her  hands,  and  again  she  folded 
them  in  her  lap.  He  walked  to  the  mantel- 
piece and  stood  looking  down  upon  the  ferns 
and  lilies. 


THE  TEST  329 


She  marked  the  stoop  of  his  broad  shoulders ; 
the  way  in  which  he  seemed  to  find  it  difficult 
to  hold  up  his  head.  Where  was  the  proud  gay 
carriage  of  the  man  who  swung  along  the 
Cornish  cliffs,  whistling  like  a  blackbird? 

"Jim,"  she  said,  "understanding  fully,  of 
course  I  forgive  fully,  if  it  is  possible  that 
between  you  and  me,  forgiveness  should  pass. 
I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  since  I  knew  you 
were  in  the  house,  and  wondering  why  I  feel 
it  so  impossible  to  say,  'I  forgive  you.'  And, 
Jim — I  think  it  is  because  you  and  I  are  so 
one  that  there  is  no  room  for  such  a  thing  as 
forgiveness  to  pass  from  me  to  you,  or  from 
you  to  me.  Complete  comprehension  and 
unfailing  love,  take  the  place  of  what  would 
be  forgi  a  between  those  who  were  less 

to  •        other." 

He  lifted  I  eyes,  for  a  moment,  full  of  a 
du:  guish,  which  wrung  her  heart. 

Myra,  I  must  go,"  he  said,  brokenly. 
M There wa  iso  much  I  had  to  tell  you;  so  much 
to  explain.   But  all  need  of  thi  ept 

away  1  r  divine  tend  and 


330        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

hension.  All  my  life  through  I  shall  carry 
with  me,  deep  hidden  in  my  heart,  these  words 
of  yours.  Oh,  my  dear — my  dear!  Don't 
speak  again!  Let  them  be  the  last.  Only — 
may  I  say  it? — never  let  thoughts  of  me, 
sadden  your  fair  life.  I  am  going  to  America 
— a  grand  place  for  fresh  beginnings;  a  land 
where  one  can  work,  and  truly  live;  a  land 
where  earnest  endeavour  meets  with  fullest 
success,  and  where  a  man's  energy  may  have 
full  scope.  I  want  you  to  think  of  me,  Myra, 
as  living,  and  working,  and  striving ;  not  going 
under.  But,  if  ever  I  feel  like  going  under, 
I  shall  hear  your  dear  voice  singing  at  my 
shoulder,  in  the  little  Cornish  church,  on  the 
quiet  Sabbath  evening,  in  the  sunset :  '  Eternal 
Father,  strong  to  save.'  .  .  .  And — when 
I  think  of  you,  my  dear — my  dear;  I  shall 
know  your  life  is  being  good  and  beautiful 
every  hour,  and  that  you  are  happy  with — " 
he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Lord  Ingleby's  portrait; 
they  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  the  kind  quiet 
face — "with  one  of  the  best  of  men,"  said 
Jim  Airth,  bravely 


THE  TEST  331 


He  took  a  last  look  at  her  face.  Silent  tears 
stole  slowly  down  it,  and  fell  upon  her  folded 
hands. 

A  spasm  of  anguish  shot  across  Jim  Airth's 
set  features. 

"Ah,  I  must  go,"  he  said,  suddenly.  "God 
keep  you,  always." 

He  turned  so  quickly,  that  his  hand  was 
actually  upon  the  handle  of  the  door,  before 
Myra  reached  him,  though  she  sprang  up, 
and  flew  across  the  room. 

"Jim,"  she  said,  breathlessly.     "Stop,  Jim! 
Ah,    stop!    Listen!    Wait! — Jim,   I    have   al- 
ways known — I  told  Jane  so — that  if  I  f 
gave   you,  I    could    not    let   you   go."     She 
flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  as  he  stood 

Lzing  at  her  in  dumb  bewilderment.     "Jim, 

my  1  >u  go;  or,  if  you 

go,  you  must  take  me  with  you.     I  cannot  live 

hoot  you,  Jim  Airtli!" 

Pot  the  he 

stood  and  him;  her 

Bd  upon  hi  .  her  clinging  anus  about 

hit  nock. 


332        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

Then  a  cry  so  terrible  burst  from  him,  that 
Myra's  heart  stood  still. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  he  cried,  "this  is  the  worst 
of  all!  Have  I,  in  falling,  dragged  her  down? 
Now,  indeed  am  I  broken — broken.  What 
was  the  loss  of  my  own  pride,  my  own  honour, 
my  own  self-esteem,  to  this?  Have  I  soiled 
her  fair  whiteness;  weakened  the  noble 
strength  of  her  sweet  purity?  Oh,  not  this — ■ 
my  God,  not  this!" 

He  lifted  his  hands  to  his  neck,  took  hers 
by  the  wrists,  and  forcibly  drew  them  down, 
stepping  back  a  pace,  so  that  she  must  lift 
her  head. 

Then,  holding  her  hands  against  his  breast : 
"Lady  Ingleby,"  he  said,  "lift  your  eyes, 
and  look  into  my  face." 

Slowly — slowly — Myra  lifted  her  grey  eyes. 
The  fire  of  his  held  her;  she  felt  the  strength 
of  him  mastering  her,  as  it  had  often  done 
before.  She  could  scarcely  see  the  anguish  in 
his  face,  so  vivid  was  the  blaze  of  his  blue  eyes. 

"Lady  Ingleby,"  he  said,  and  the  grip  of 
his  hands  on  hers,  tightened.     "Lady  Ingleby 


THE  TEST  333 


— we  stood  like  this  together,  you  and  I,  on  a 
fast  narrowing  strip  of  sand.  The  cruel  sea 
swept  up,  relentless.  A  high  cliff  rose  in 
front — our  only  refuge.  I  held  you  thus,  and 
said:  '  We  must  climb — or  drown.'  Do  you 
remember? — I  say  it  now,  again.  The  only 
possible  right  thing  to  do  is  steep  and  difficult ; 
but  we  must  climb.  We  must  mount  above 
our  lower  selves;  away  from  this  narrowing 
strip  of  dangerous  sand ;  away  from  this  cm-  1 
sea  of  fierce  temptation;  up  to  the  breezy 
clifT-top,  up  to  the  blue  above,  into  the  open 
of  honour  and  right  and  perfect  purity.  You 
stood  there,  until  now;  you  stood  there — brave 
and  beautiful.  I  dragged  you  down — God 
forgive  me,  I  brought  you  into  danger — Hush! 
you    must    climb    again;    you    must 

imb  alone;  but  when  I  ai         e,  your  climb- 
will  be<  You  will  soon  find  yourself 
andinj .     fe  and  high,  above  the  ■<■  treacher- 

V<  irgive  me,  if  I    eem 

I  [i      reed  ently  backwards  to 

th<  ■     a  L,  "an  L  do  cot 

,  until  I  have  left  the  b  And  if  ever 


334        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

these  moments  come  back  to  you,  Lady 
Ingleby,  remember,  the  whole  blame  was 
mine.  .  .  .  Hush,  I  tell  you;  hush!  And 
will  you  loose  my  hands?" 

But  Myra  clung  to  those  big  hands,  laugh- 
ing, and  weeping,  and  striving  to  speak. 

"Oh,  Jim — my  Jim! — you  can't  leave  me 
to  climb  alone,  because  I  am  all  your  own,  and 
free  to  be  yours  and  no  other  man's,  and  to- 
gether, thank  God,  we  can  stand  on  the  cliff- 
top  where  His  hand  has  led  us.  Dearest — 
Jim,  dearest — don't  pull  away  from  me, 
because  I  must  cling  on,  until  you  have  read 
these  telegrams.  Oh,  Jim,  read  them  quickly! 
.  .  .  Sir  Deryck  Brand  brought  them  down 
from  town  this  afternoon.  And  oh,  forgive 
me  that  I  did  not  tell  you  at  once.  ...  I 
wanted  you  to  prove  yourself,  what  I  knew 
you  to  be,  faithful,  loyal,  honourable,  brave, 
the  man  of  all  men  whom  I  trust ;  the  man  who 
will  never  fail  me  in  the  upward  climb,  until 
we  stand  together  beneath  the  blue  on  the 
heights  of  God's  eternal  hills.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Jim " 


THE  TEST  335 

Her  voice  faltered  into  silence;  for  Jim 
Airth  knelt  at  her  feet,  his  head  in  her  lap, 
his  arms  flung  around  her,  and  he  was  sobbing 
as  only  a  strong  man  can  sob,  when  his  heart 
has  been  strained  to  breaking  point,  and  sud- 
den relief  has  come. 

Myra  laid  her  hands,  gently,  upon  the 
roughness  of  his  hair.  Thus  they  stayed 
long,  without  speaking  or  moving. 

And  in  those  sacred  minutes  Myra  learned 
the  lesson  which  ten  years  of  wedded  life  had 
failed  to  teach:  that  in  the  strongest  man  there 

.  sometimes,  the  eternal  child — ^  .  master- 

ful, dependent,  full  of  needs;  and  that,  in  every 
woman's  love  there  must   therefore   be   an 

merit  of  the  eternal  mother— tender,  under- 
standing, i         Lt;  wi         ■;  self-         uderin   ; 

to  bear;  ready  to  ;th 

m;  in  wi 

At  Length  Jim  Airth  lifted  his  head 
The  last  1"    '      of  th  sun,  i 

through  t:  tU  window,  illumined,  with 

/  of  golden  ed'>ry,  the  lovel  ve 

him.     Hut  he     aw  on   it    a  radiance  m< 


336        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

bright  than  the  reflected  glory  of  any  earthly 
sunset. 

"Myra?"  he  said,  awe  and  wonder  in  his 
voice.     "  Myra?     What  is  it?  " 

And  clasping  her  hands  about  his  neck  as 
he  knelt  before  her,  she  drew  his  head  to  her 
breast,  and  answered: 

11 1  have  learnt  a  lesson,  my  beloved;  a  lesson 
only  you  could  teach.  And  I  am  very  happy 
and  thankful,  Jim;  because  I  know,  that  at 
last,  I — even  I — am  ready  for  wifehood,** 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
"what  shall  we  write?" 

HTHE   hall   at   the    Moorhead    Inn   seemed 
very  home-like  to  Jim  Airth  and  Myra, 
as   they   stood   together   looking   around   it, 
on  their  arrival. 

Jim  had   set  his  heart  upon  bringing  his 

wife  then-,  on  the  evening  of  their  wedding 

day.    Therefore  they  had  Left  town  immedi- 

••   the   ceremony;   dined   en   route, 

and  :  they  had  so  often  stood 

when    bidding    one    another    good- 

lamp-light,  beside  the  marl 

ile. 

•  >h,  Jim  dear,"  whispered  Myra,  thn 
hark  her  travellii  Lk,  "does  n't  it  all  seem 

itural?    Look  at  the  old  clock!    Fiveminut 


338        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

past  ten.  The  Miss  Murgatroyds  must  have 
gone  up,  in  staid  procession,  exactly  four 
minutes  ago.  Look  at  the  stag's  head! 
There  is  the  antler,  on  the  topmost  point  of 
which  you  always  hung  your  cap." 

"Myra " 

"Yes,  dear.  Oh,  I  hope  the  Murgatroyds 
are  still  here.  Let  's  look  in  the  book.  .  .  . 
Yes,  see!  Here  are  their  names  with  date  of 
arrival,  but  none  of  departure.  And,  oh, 
dearest,  here  is  'Jim  Airth,'  as  I  first  saw  it 
written;  and  look  at  'Mrs.  O'Mara'  just 
beneath  it!  How  well  I  remember  glancing 
back  from  the  turn  cf  the  staircase,  seeing  you 
come  out  and  read  it,  and  wishing  I  had  writ- 
ten it  better.  You  can  set  me  plenty  of  copies 
now,  Jim." 

"Myra! " 

"Yes,  dear.  Do  you  know  I  am  going  to 
fly  up  and  unpack.  Then  I  will  come  out  to 
the  honeysuckle  arbour  and  sit  with  you  while 
you  smoke.  And  we  need  not  mind  being  late ; 
because  the  dear  ladies,  not  knowing  we  have 
returned,  will  not  all  be  sleeping  with  doors 


"  WHAT  SHALL  WE  WRITE?  "        339 

ajar.  But  oh  Jim,  you  must — however  late 
it  is — plump  your  boots  out  into  the  passage, 
just  for  the  fun  of  making  Miss  Susannah's 
heart  jump  unexpectedly." 

"  Myra!     Oh,  I  say!     My  wife H 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know!  But  I  am  perfectly 
certain  'Aunt  Ingleby'  is  peeping  out  of  her 
little  office  at  the  end  of  the  passage;  also, 
Polly  has  finished  helping  Sam  place  our 
luggage  upstairs,  and  I  can  feel  her,  hanging 
over  the  top  banisters !  Be  patient  for  just  a 
little  while,  my  Jim.  Let  's  put  our  names 
in  the  visitors'  book.  What  shall  we  wril 
Really  we  shall  be  obliged  eventually  to  let 
them  know  who  you  are.  Think  what  an 
excitem-  it  the  Miss  Murgatroyds.     But, 

just  for  once,  I  am  going  to  write  myself  down 
by  the  name,  of  all  others,  I  have  most  wishe  1 
to  bear." 

So,  smiling  gaily  up  at  her  husband,  then 
acting  over  the  table  to  hide  her  happy  ia 
fromthi  ewly-made 

Airth  and  Monteith  up  the 

L,  without  pau  reherglov 


340        THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

wrote  in  the  visitors'  book  of  the  Moorhead 
Inn,  in  the  clear  bold  handwriting  peculiarly 
her  own : 


^l 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


discharge-toe 

FEB  l  o  191 
MAR  191987 


315 


AA    000  370  804    1 


3    1158   00651    6107 


